


Operation Relationship

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Near Death Experiences, a romp through the plot i wrote two years ago, spy mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: Q and Bond are sent on a mission together as one of our favourite trope - pretend husbands. On the way to stop a cunning heiress and her desperate plan for survival, they will learn to live with and, possibly, love one another





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So 90% of this was something I wrote 2 years ago and then abandoned because I thought it was a piece of shit. Then I thought I might as well write the last 10% and post it because shit or not, at least it's public and accessible shit that leaves an imprint of the work I have done. So enjoy!

“Renée Dupont,” Q announces, tablet flat on his palm, eyes of steely focus. With a flick of the wrist, he projected her profile on to the screen. “Heiress, socialite, and a Class B person of interest.”

 

Bond shifts from where he was standing, half hidden behind Tanner. The picture on the screen shows a woman in her thirties, with a strong jaw and an aristocratic nose, blonde hair curling gently around her elegantly dressed self. The sneer and the haughty tilt of her head are the only things marring the lines of her body. “What else do we know about her?” 

 

“Very successful businesswoman. She took over her father's business after he died, expanding it into an multi-national empire, primarily concerned with diamonds and antiques.” Another flick of the wrist and photos spilled onto the screen, all touting Renée, shadowed by a giant, ornate ‘D' written in cursive. “She has companies in almost all the major cities in the world and her name is well known in the social scene. Surprisingly, she's kept a relatively low profile for someone of her reputation. There are rarely any records of her making headlines in the news, unlike her competitors.”

 

“Doesn't look very dangerous to me.” Bond commented.

 

“No,” Q agrees. “However,” a light tap, and the photos are replaced with slightly blurred shots of several sneering, dark skinned men, all of them thickset and thuggish, eyes narrowed with suspicion and holding a light of cunning. “She's also been quite active in other fields, unfortunately. Known to have indirectly interfered with politics of various North African countries to further her arms trade. She's been on our watch list for quite some time.”

 

“Beauty, intelligence, and ambition.” Bond muses. “Quite an explosive combination.”

 

“We suspect she might have links to bigger fish,” M cuts in from where he’s seated. “Obscure names and locations unique to those like Dupont, all who could be the next great threat. Her knowledge could be vital in pinpointing them. You are tasked with the retrieval of the information using whatever method you deem necessary.”

 

"With all due respect, sir,” Bond says, eyes never leaving the screen. “I fail to see how this is considered 00 business.”

 

There’s a tense silence as his insolence soaks in. Tanner’s eye twitches and Q gives a slight cough. Bond continues to calmly read the information on the screen.

 

M doesn't even flinch, and the poker face he's holding could rival his predecessor. “Dupont has been eyeing London as her next expansion for some time now,” he says, his voice never skipping. Perhaps he really is qualified for the job after all. “She's pushed her boundaries too far this time.It might be wise to stop her. Permanently.”

 

Bond nods, mildly impressed. “Very good, sir.” The outline of the mission is forming vaguely in his mind; a simple interrogation and kill mission. Hardly worth his time or his skillset. Still, as much as he's chafing under the leash of the new M, it's an official order, and as far as he knows, it might be another attempt on M’s part to rein him him. Not that it had ever worked with the previous M but it’s not his place to question.Taking a last look at Dupont’s face and the motley crew assembled here, he buttons his jacket, preparing to go.

 

“One more thing, 007.” Q's said, eyes still very much fixed on the screen.

 

Bond rolls his eyes, settling back into a relaxed slouch with a pursing of his lips. As much as he like hearing his voice, Bond would rather not listen to Q prattle on here. M's office always makes him antsy. Still, he settles and indicates that he's listening. 

 

Q glanced down at the tablet, pulling up a simplified diagram of a computer system, parts labeled in miniscule writing. “Dupont’s server is encrypted with a very complicated and unstable programme, so I'm afraid that a technician on site is necessary. It's too risky to monitor the system obliquely without specialised knowledge, so I'm afraid you're quite useless in that area. No offense, Bond.”

 

“None taken,” Bond parries smoothly. “Too complicated? You must be losing your touch.” He smiles sardonically. “Why can't the all-knowing Q hack into such an insignificant system?”

 

“Because I created it.” Q answers primly. “And as such, it would be best if I were the technician on site.”

 

Bond loses his composure for a few seconds, frozen on the spot. He hates surprises. “But you hate flying,” is all he's able to come up with.

 

Q rolls his eyes. “I'm sure I can set that aside for Queen and country,” he says dryly. “Any more questions?”

 

The mission must be more important than he thought then. “Yes, just one more.” Bond tilts his head. “Wouldn't it be less conspicuous if we had a more… conventional cover? Two men travelling together or even apart will raise quite a bit of suspicion.”

 

“Ah,” Q inclines his head. “I believe Tanner will brief you on that.” 

 

“In the meantime, 007, report to Q branch for weapons. Both of you will be leaving in three days.” M flips opens a few files and uncapped his pen, a clear sign of dismissal. “Good luck.”

 

“Sir.” He files out last, graciously stepping aside for Q, before falling in step with him. If the nearness of his presence bother him, Q doesn't protest, his face ever aloof and impassioned. Bond shakes his head, keeping pace with Q's fast clip. Always the professional. 

 

Tanner wastes no time briefing them as they stride through the winding halls. “Dupont will be holding a party next week to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of her company at her mansion located in Versailles. You'll be posing as a married couple with discrete dealings in her arms trade. You can find more information for your covers here.” He unearthed two slim manila folders from his briefcase, handing it over to them. 

 

“Married couple?” Bond flips through the folder, amused. “I'm not sure you understand the definition of ‘conspicuous'.” 

 

Tanner shrugs. “Dupont’s tastes in friends are… well, eccentric. Surveillance has evidence that she prefers the company of homosexual couples and more importantly, trysts with taken men.”

 

Q doesn't even grimace. “Really says a lot about her then.” he murmurs, the corner of his lips flicking up to a smile at Bond's huff of laughter.

 

They walk in silence after that, with Bond idly scanning his cover. Tanner peels off from the group as they near Q branch, bidding them a polite goodbye, leaving Bond finally alone with Q. 

 

Without his superiors, Q's reserve seems to thaw to his usual self, all sharp wit and wry humor. “So, Mr…” he peeked into the folder. “Thomson.” He gives a bland smile, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Lovely to meet you. It seems like we're very happily married.” 

 

Bond grins. “With a face like that, who wouldn't jump at a chance of marrying you?”

 

Q pouts, voice heavy with mock hurt. “Oh, Mr Thomson. How shallow you are! What about my personality? Surely you're attracted to that?”

 

“Your personality too,” Bond agrees. “But mostly I married you for the sparkling conversation.”

 

“How wonderful,” Q swipes his card at the entrance of Q branch, not bothering to hide the keypad from view as he punches in the password. Bond has broken in here without one, and he would no doubt do so again. “To know that you have such low standards for a spouse.”

 

R took over the weapons assignment from here, handing Q a brand new laptop, one devoid of stickers, which he took with a wrinkled nose, and Bond his basic field set, with a couple of extras.

 

“Christmas must be approaching,” Bond remarks as he examines a laser cutter and tranquiliser darts as R bustles away. “Come to fill up my stockings?”

 

“I'm going to ignore the pathetic innuendo you made there, 007.” Q is similarly looking over his gadgets, tracing a finger over the metal edge of the laptop. “The only reason you're having more equipment than usual is because I will be personally accompanying you to act as your impulse control. Hopefully, your return rates will improve.”

 

“Your lack of belief hurts me deeply, darling.” 

 

Q shoots him a nasty look, setting the laptop gently on the worktable and turning it on, fingers tapping lightly at the keyboard. “Do try to contain your excitement over our covers, 007. You don’t want people getting the wrong impression of your character.”

 

“Devoted?

 

“Pathetic,” Q corrects, mild look of wistfulness flashing across his face as he looks between his personal laptop and the one in his hand.

 

Bond catches on, gesturing to the both. “Not as pimped out?” he guesses.

 

Q shakes his head, focusing once more on the brand new one, flipping it over and examining the bottom. “Too sentimental. I prefer the something familiar to work with. Something I’ve had successful missions with. But seeing as my character is one who prefers something less...distinctive, I suppose it will do.”

 

“Sentimentality will get you killed.” Bond says with a knowing look. They both understand that he isn’t quite referring to the gadgets.

 

“Not all of us can be heartless bastards like you, 007. Thank God for that too. One is quite enough for the world.”

 

R reappears, this time carrying a small vial full of pink pills which Q pockets without comment. Turning to the both, she hands over their plane tickets and invites to the party, finishing off with a genuine smile and a whispered “good luck!”.

 

For the next week or so, R would be the equivalent to Q while he was away, overseeing all relevant missions and running Q branch as he might do, with some guidance from Q himself. Bond likes R; motherly yet commanding, she is a good handler and holds herself with great poise both in the male dominated sector of Six and over the mike. Second only to Q in intelligence and command, Bond trusts her with his life. His kisses to her cheeks and the murmured “thank you” are as genuine as he can get.

 

Smiling pleasantly at Q, Bond collects his kit and held out an arm. “So, Mr Thomson, are you ready for a holiday?”

 

“Oh, Mr Thomson,” Q smiles back, equally pleasant as he walks off, leaving Bond hanging. “Am I ever.”

 

*

 

The airport is alive with the blush of humanity, an intermediate respite from their intended destination, planted firmly on the fact that it is neither here nor there. The crowd of blabbering tour group and the washed out faces of the weary hid Bond and Q seamlessly, although the squeeze of bodies were starting to make Q twitchy. In the last half and hour, Bond had caught him nervously drumming his fingers on the bulge in his trousers, eyes darting nervously around.

 

The flight wasn't long; a mere ninety minutes, but it was faster this way. Their boarding pass have been examined and accepted, and Bond had selected a secluded spot for them to sit and watch the waves of people flow past. Q had yet to stop moving ever since then.

 

“Take the pills,” Bond nodded at the pocket after Q checked his watch for the nth time. “You're starting to get on my nerves. And please stop touching yourself. People will get the wrong idea.”

 

“Only you, pervert,” Q said without any real heat. “And a fat load of lies. If I got on your nerves you'd have been off and away flirting up a storm with some woman on her layover.” He pulls his cardigan tighter around him and jiggles his leg. “I can't take the pills now. They'll knock me out cold and I still don't trust you enough to not leave me here drooling.” He checks his watch again, fingers flying in tiny intricate concertos as he notes the time. “Ten minutes before boarding.”

 

They sit in silence for a while longer, watching a woman try to discreetly pick her nose from behind a large plant, and Bond try not to feel too irritated at the vibrating seat beneath him.

 

“Come here.” He drapes an arm around Q as soon as the jiggling turns to bouncing, startling him and making his rhythm falter. Q gives up on his observation on the woman, who is now trying to eat whatever she had dug out. When he naturally resisted, Bond pulls him in tighter in an iron grip, resting his mouth next to Q’s ear, looking for all intents and purposes like a lover engaging in sweet talk. “Our mission has already started. Rule number one, you never know when you’re being watched, so it’s best if you keep your cover on in public.”

 

Q stiffens, his breath quickening, an imperceptible change in the puffs of air. Then, abruptly, he melts into Bond’s grip, soft as putty with an adoring expression, eager not to blow the mission up before it starts. The sliding of Q’s warm palm over his makes him shiver. “Are you really going to be this handsy during the entire trip? Not that I’m complaining. Not if,” he corrected himself quickly. “Not if it’s going to help us survive the mission. Of course.”

 

Interesting. “I can be more than a little handsy, darling,” Bond all but purred, lips coming to trace down the shell of Q’s ear, making him bite back a soft moan. “Is that what you’d like?”

 

Q blushed prettily under his ministration, head tilted down as if in a shy acquiescence. His fingers, on the contrary, laced with Bond and squeeze painfully tight; a warning. Bond didn’t flinch, but he does put a little space between them. “Now, now, darling. Let’s keep the racy stuff for the bedroom, shall we?’

 

“Whatever you say, my dear.” Bond squeezed back, equally hard. As much as his words may imply more than just a role, Q is a colleague, one of the rare ones that he actually respects and listens to. He’d keep his hands to himself if it sees their professional relationship through, no matter the confusing, almost possessive feeling condensing in him every time he sees him.  Still, he couldn’t help but jibe. “It might be good if we practice a little though.”

 

“Mm, darling.” Q’s grip loosened, and he shifts to face Bond fully. He has stopped bouncing his leg now, and Bond counts it as a win; it’s usually takes more than just a flirt to distract the Quartermaster’s brilliant mind. “How about some reminiscence of our first meeting? I’ve been told that it work wonders on strengthening a relationship.”

 

“I would never have forgotten such an event, David,” Bond slides smoothly into his character. David, Q’s cover, would be pleased with him. “I remembered it so clearly. Tuscany, wasn’t it?”

 

Q frowns, clearly disoriented. Their files put David and Arnold’s first meeting at an electronics convention, where they were bidding for the last laptop before Arnold let David win. He adapts quickly, knowing full well Bond’s penchant for improvisation after having experiencing it first hand during countless of frustrating missions. “Beautiful place,” he continues. “Best coffee I’ve ever tasted, especially in that cafe where we first met. Stunning view too. You could see the sunset perfectly from there.”

 

“You spilled coffee on my suit when you were distracted by one of those sunsets.” Bond’s voice has a teasing edge of accusal. “My bespoke suit, no less. How awfully rude of you.”

 

Q smiles, the scenario already forming in his mind. “Do you remember what I said then?”

 

“‘Why don’t I get you out of that shirt and do something worthwhile while you wait for it to dry?’” Trust Bond to choose the cheesiest line.

 

“Oh, Arnold, darling, you make me sound so easy. You may be good, but I doubt you were good enough to pull me in with a kiss.”

 

“Of course not,” Bond sounds affronted. “I’d at least have wined and dined you first. Maybe catch a play or two and stroll around an art gallery before I invited you over to my place.” Bond paused, thinking. “I wasn’t sure you’d have seen such lavishness before. I was a little hesitant to bring you back, really.”

 

“Oh?” Q asks, amused. “Were you to be my sugar daddy then? Dab on a little of that old world charm and wrap me around your hand like a trophy wife?”

 

“Maybe,” Bond huffs a laugh. “I doubt writers of obscure historical writers earn much. Although the subject choice might be a little ironic, especially with that face.”

 

“Says the pot to the kettle,” Q replies dryly to the age joke. “And I was not impressed, thank you very much. I was more concerned with you having your wicked way with me.”

 

“Wicked way? Yes.” Bond lowers his voice to a murmur. “It was the best day of your life, I remember you saying. You loved every second of it. The way I pinned you against the wall and kissed you senseless, the way I do it just the way you like it, slow and gentle, then fast and rough, the way you melt when I do,” he shifts the arm around Q's shoulder, giving it a firm stroke down the back of his neck, lips quirking at the reedy sigh that escapes his parted mouth. “This. Oh yes, I remember you telling me you fell a little in love with me that day.”

 

Q's pupils are blown, his cheeks a delicious red as he stares at Bond, neither of them daring to move as the challenge for the other to make the first move becomes apparent. 

 

Bond was certain that would stay in this position for hours, calm blue meeting stormy hazel, if not for the call for boarding. Q breaks the gaze first, letting Bond's arm fall, turning to look towards the gate and visibly settling back to himself. “Come on, dear, it won't do to miss the flight.”

 

Bond follows without comment, only slightly surprised when Q slips an arm around his and pulls their bodies together. It wasn't until he felt the fine tremble against him to realise that the physical intimacy might not just be for their covers after all. He pulls Q closer with a casual hook around his waist, squeezing possessively as he plants a quick kiss on his head. Q relaxed somewhat, but the stiffness in his slight frame is still evident.

 

Q was a snoring, drooling mess after swallowing the pills with a determined look in his eyes, head nestled in the crook of Bond's neck soon before takeoff. The heavy weight on him was not unwelcomed, but the air stewardess who looks ready to swoon over them didn't help. He was tempted to order enough alcohol to drown himself in, but decided, for the sake of his cover and to avoid Q's wrath, to endure the rest of the flight in silence. 

 

It wasn’t a long flight and thankfully, there were no screaming children or people kicking the back of their chairs. Bond contemplated going through the file one more time, but he’d already memorised it by then, and without anyone to practice it with, he might as well keep his mouth shut.

 

Q didn't look like he'd wake anytime soon, and his options for entertainment are limited with a floppy, unconscious man draped on half his body. Instead, he repressed a sigh, nestling deeper into the seat to pass the flight in silence. Field agents are accustomed to the wait, and the long, frustrating hours of inactivity has taught him to empty his mind and rest with his eyes open. It doesn't, however, stop him from mentally cataloguing the younger man’s features for the rest of the flight.

 

Q is young; that much is obvious, but with the lines of stress and worry smoothed out from his face, he looks almost… normal. Not yet scarred by the long nights and poor diet, Q's delicate features and soft slanting eyes belied his acerbic wit, strong hands tapering off into slender fingers so different from the almost feminine cut of his cheekbones. Unconventionally beautiful, was what the others have whispered back at Six, and though not the typical fare of blonde hair and shapely curves that Bond marks come in, combined with Q's intelligence and their countless adventures with national crises, he could definitely see the appeal.

 

On impulse, he drops a kiss on Q's forehead, nosing the strands away as the air stewardess walks past again, looking ready to clutch her heart and squeal. Q tilts his head at the contact and snuffles into his collarbone, and Bond's heart softens just a little. 

 

And if he takes the chance to commit the moment to memory, no one has to know.


	2. Chapter 2

The Paris Orly airport is a blur of dizzying french accents as Bond drags a still sedated Q through customs as soon as they touched down. Bond's arms still aches from the pins and needles, but he hikes Q's arm higher, trying not to look like he kidnapped the other man. Q blinks fuzzily at the change in scenery, his eyes half shut and unfocused, but at least he had the presence of mind to cling to Bond like a limpet, strained smile trying for something loving. Bond returns the custom officer's sympathetic tutting with a ‘you know how he is’ look as Q gave another jaw cracking yawn, hand going to grip his waist in case he decides to go to sleep standing up. It has happened before, and Bond had not the mood to deal with it.

 

He ushers Q into a his Aston Martin, brought over specially after his request to Q branch was put through. That such a request was actually processed is astounding, and Bond suspects Q's hand in the matter, but as long as they had the car to add weight to the part, they should have no problem blending in with Dupont’s friends. Besides, he'd much rather not look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

Q watches the scenery flash past with hazy eyes, hand absent mindedly stroking his laptop case as the medicine induced fog clears until he's sitting upright again, alert and focused. Pulling out his phone, he fired off a few texts and emails, most likely reassuring Q branch and M of his surviving the flight as well as put through a few preliminary commands before they meet Dupont. 

 

The hotel they've decided on is lavish, with the interior decorated to mimic eighteenth century designs, all overstuffed chairs and gold overhangs, projecting an image of it being at once imperious and stuffy. Q looks slightly out of place with his boyish looks and sensible shoes, but the moment they stepped through into the lobby, his postures changed; back ramrod straight and chin tilted in a haughty poise, steps sliding into a self assured clip instead of his usual, more looping strides. The changes are almost imperceptible, but the overall result astounding. 

 

Bond lets his eyes flick casually around the room as Q handles the check in, occasionally teasing him gently and slipping in a few endearments for good measure, noting the exits and possible people of interest. So far, the hotel layout is large and sprawling enough to offer a quick and anonymous getaway if needed, and the hotel lobby shows three Chinese males, mid thirties, and a handful of Italian and Americans talking in hushed tones or reading, their accents lying thick on top of the other. None of their well cut jacket and trousers hint at hidden firearms, but one can never be too careful. After all, Bond knows twelve different ways to alter the cut of his suit to fit in a Walther PPK or two. 

 

They only speak when they're safely sequestered away in their room and Bond had swept the area for bugs. Q stood in the middle of the room as he prowled, eyes tracking his process and cataloging everything in his precise, methodical way. 

 

“I see you've chosen a room closest to the fire exit.” Q started off when Bond felt safe enough to finally sprawl on the sofa. “Surrounded by three walls, quick exits, and a clear view from the window over there.” He nodded to the wide Venetian windows behind Bond showing a spectacular view of the sea. “Less chance of a surprise attack.”

 

Bond smiled, a little surprised. Q may not be a field agent, but logic and adaptability has clearly serve him well. “Well now you have rendered me obsolete.”

 

Q returns his smile with a humorous grin and a teasing tone. “Rule number two; always be aware of your surroundings.”

 

That startles a laugh from Bond. He sits up, removing his jacket and loosening his tie, adjusting his shoulder holster as he settles back into a more comfortable position. Motioning for Q to sit, he asks, “And what have you to say about the people in the lobby?”

 

“Not much,” Q admitted, going to deposit his satchel on the bed before toeing off his shoes and settling on the other end of the sofa, facing Bond. “I was too preoccupied with the receptionist to take much notice and I trusted that you would have done your job well. What I did notice, though, is the couple at the bar. The missus was talking to the bartender, I believe, while the husband was on his phone. From the way she leaned forward and twirled her pearls and the way the bartender serves her drink, I'd say that they were familiar with each other, intimately so. The husband, on the other hand, seems rather oblivious to it all.”

 

“How scandalous.” Bond commented dryly, but he motioned for Q to continue. 

 

“Then there is the lady in the lift, the one who barely spared us a glance. Elegantly dressed in haute couture and flushed with an air of importance. Her heels, however, are well worn and too short to match her dress, and the way she holds her custom made bag in front instead of lax at the side, like a uni student trying not to get mugged, leads me to guess that she's just come to some money, and she hasn't yet realized that it can't buy sophistication.”

 

There is a pause as Q finishes his comprehensive observations, and Bond suspects the cool look on his face showed too much smugness than is necessary. He's more than inclined to indulge his Quartermaster though, as he pushes himself off the couch, walking past Q to search the minibar, brushing his fingers along the other man's hand with a murmured “Good job”, not missing the way confused but hungry eyes followed him.

 

*

 

They receive their invite for the party at exactly 3 that afternoon, delivered by a hotel staff. Bond answered the door half dressed with a gun in hand, smoothly tucking the Walther in his waistband and putting on a politely puzzled look as the man held up the envelope. 

 

“Letter for,” he squinted at the print on the paper. “Mr Thomson?” he glanced back up at Bond, all affected nonchalance.

 

“That's me.” The man is obviously not working for the hotel; his tilted hat and incorrectly folded handkerchief peeking out from the front pocket showed sloppiness that would never be tolerated from the staff. His uniform is ill fitting, too tight around the shoulders and too long at the cuffs, hastily crumpled and suspiciously dirty, almost like it was stolen before it could be washed. Bond accepts the heavy cream envelope with a smile and a tip, never letting on his suspicion. 

 

So Dupont or one of the parties of interest knows their location then. It’s dangerous, enough to have his senses sharpening, but it would be unwise to move - to do so would might trigger an outright confrontation. Vigilance and care are their best hope now. 

 

His musings leads him to Q, perched almost daintily on the enormous bed, legs stretched before him, lazily scrolling through his new laptop. There are bits and pieces of electronics strewn across the bed, some bigger than his palm, others smaller than his pinky nail, all unrecognisable. He peers up at Bond through floppy fringe, wriggling his bare toes as he blows the hair out of his eyes, fingers absently petting one of the pulsing devices. For a moment, Q very much resembles a contented cat, surrounded by his possessions and looking very much at home.

 

“I’d appreciate not sleeping on a lumpy bed tonight, darling.” Bond said, circling around him and balancing himself gingerly at the corner. He slits open the envelope and pulls out the invite, giving it a cursory once-over. The card is of heavy, expensive paper, and the cursive words simply stated Dupont’s name, the address, and the date. Nothing they don't already know. He passed it over to Q, who hummed as his eyes scanned the information. “It seems they know we're here.”

 

Q's eyes flashed in alarm and his fingers twitched. “What do we do?”

 

“Nothing,” Bond replied grumpily, stuffing his hand in his pockets. “As much as I hate being a sitting duck, we have to stay. It the best way to retain our cover.”  He watches Q's brows furrow. “The hotel is not my first choice, but running wouldn't help us.”

 

Q nods, eyes darting around the hotel room, peering and mumbling to himself, “I could always configure a security system with a surveillance element…”

 

Bond smiles as Q goes off on a tangent, eyes drifting to the distracting sight of him chewing his lips as he thinks out loud. It's moments like this that Bond finds him the most attractive, with his single minded focus aimed at his projects, hair tousled and deliciously disheveled. Pushing himself further up the bed, body predatory and loose, he circles a hand around Q's ankle, reveling in the way it cuts off his words mid speech with sharp inhale. 

 

“We don't look like a proper couple yet,” he purrs, letting his hands roam higher, rubbing and tracing. Q aims a sharp stare at the tan skin on his own pale one, muscles letting loose bit by bit as Bond strokes a safe route up and down his ankle and leg. “But I do know a few ways involving us and a bed that would convince them that we are.”

 

Q is definitely interested now, with a sweet blush high on his cheekbones, his tongue peeking out unconsciously to moisten his plush lower lip. The routine of the drill settles pleasant and heavy in Bond's bones, a seduction that has easily pulled in women and a few men. Bond waits patiently, knowing from experience that arousal doesn't equate to consent. Q would come to him willingly, and maybe sex would be able to scrub clean this infatuation of his, leaving him professionally cold and uncompromised again.

 

It's a surprise and a relief when Q carefully extricates his leg from Bond's grip, apologetic but firm. “We still have much to accomplish, 007.” He says, turning back to his laptop, although his breathing have yet to settle. “Leave me alone now.”

 

Bond backs away graciously, rolling off the bed and padding away, all leonine grace, to pick their outfit for the night. Q is right, they have much to do, and Bond is going to make sure they're there to make an entrance.

 

*

 

T-minus two hours before their arrival to the party and Q is staring at the tailored navy suit draped across his side of the bed. He wrinkles his nose in confusion, circling the midnight blue piece warily. “This isn't mine.”

 

Bond lurks by the vanity table, fiddling with his bow tie as Q inspects the suit. He had the suspicion that Q would react this way, but he’d spent too long imagining how it would cling and accentuate for it fall through now. Tipping his chin, he gestures at Q’s reflection through the mirror. “This one's better.”

 

Q makes a scandalized noise. “What's wrong with my other one?”

 

Bond picked up his cologne, dabbing a little on his neck and wrist. “There are dinner jackets and there are dinner jackets, and this is the latter.” He feels a jolt of bitter anger and regret flash through him as he repeats the words she said so haughtily a lifetime and a half ago. “I need you looking like you belong at that party.” He finished gruffly, capping the bottle and stalking towards the closet. 

 

Q pouts, drawing his skinny frame up with an almost comical defiance. “I'm not wearing it.”

 

Bond half turns, raising an eyebrow. 

 

Q deflates. “Fine.” Plucking the hanger up gingerly, he examines the material, rubbing it with curious fingers, delighting in the soft slide of expensive fabric. “Although I do find it disconcerting that you know my exact size. Did you filch it from my files?” At Bond's noncommittal grunt, he continues. “You shouldn't have. It's way above your security clearance.”

 

Bond strips off his shirt, smirking at Q. “Like that has ever stopped me before.”

 

“You're incorrigible.” Q's tone had a thread of fondness in it, which turned sharp and embarrassed as Bond unbuttoned his trousers. “I'd appreciate it if you changed someone where I can't see.”

 

“Shy?” He contemplates going ahead and pulling down his pants too, but decided against it in favor of padding to the bathroom. Not everyone has their sense of shame and proprietary burned away by rigorous training. 

 

“Hardly,” Q called out. “Wouldn't want me to fall all over you like one of your girls, do you?”

 

The self depreciating answer was to be expected, but Bond's instinctive urge to reply with a vehement protest that no, Q is nothing like his ‘girls’.

 

“What I would give for more than just that.” Bond murmurs to himself as he casts a look at Q plucking the jacket carefully off the hook, ducking back into the bathroom to suit up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted by the end of this week! Just gotta make some edits and all.
> 
> Do leave your kudos and comments if you've enjoyed this :)


	3. Chapter 3

Their ride to Dupont’s mansion is passed in silence, with Q sitting tensed and thrumming with nervous energy, lips in a straight line and arms pressing closed to his body, no doubt fingering the thumb drive in its hidden pocket. He looks ready to vibrate out of his skin with every jolt of the car, but there’s nothing they can do now. Too late for condolences and too late for turning back. 

 

Bond vaguely remembers the rookie nerves that wracks Q now, his memories a half forgotten haze, revolving around when he just started out, before unforgiving nature of the job weathered the anxiety to a mere whisper, hidden under tight skin, straining at the seams to let the beast within loose. It's craving for blood now, an ever present lust for violence and the satisfying crunch of bone between jaws, prowling and snapping at its chains, and Bond coos at it to have patience as he switches gear, speeding towards the mansion peeking through the trees lining the roadside.

 

The mansion is more of a castle than anything else, with stone walls and turrets rounding off a magnificent maze. Q is sitting ramrod straight now, leaning forward in his seat and fiddling with his earwig, fingers fluttering nervously to where his equipments are hidden. 

 

Bond lets his hand glance over Q's as they neared the mansion, heavy wrought iron gates topped with gargoyles staring them down as they drove through. It was a simple touch, a ghost of a caress as he reaches down to switch gears. And if Q felt his unspoken assurance, he doesn't let it show, but Bond could see his shoulders droop a little and the tension drain. 

 

He took Bond's proffered arm easily as they exited the car, pressing close and fidgeting as Bond pass the keys over to the valet.

 

The suit fits Q like a dream, tight in all the right places and moulding to his shoulders and thighs, and Bond feels a slight smugness as he gives Q a subtle once over, delighting in the way he slowly grows into the suit with a confidence like a second skin. Bond had the sudden, irrational urge to drive them back to their hotel room and shut Q in it, just him and the other man, to be able to rip the suit off piece by piece and devour him with hungry hands and mouth. He settles for a wolf grin instead, snaking his arm around Q's waist, fingers slotting into the ridges of his hips. Q rewards his display of possessiveness with a glare and purposely trod on his shoes, looking close to sticking out his tongue at Bond in petulance. At Bond's tightening grip, he sulkily acquiescence to the hold, hooking a finger into those by his side in his own show of dominance.

 

The grandness of the ballroom is startling in its lavishness, all chandelier reflected lights and expensive cream drapes. The sight of mingling people dressed in only the most expensive material is by no means unfamiliar to Bond, and he gives himself a few moments to blink and adjust, sinking into his role as a rich devoted husband with a smile and a drink from the passing waiter. 

 

Q, on the other hand, seized up. He accepts the champagne from Bond with wide, darting eyes, nervous rabbit energy from the car gripping him again as he downs the drink in a gulp. Logic and reasoning had played a large part in helping him through the preparation stage but nothing beats experience when coming to the real deal. The possibility that Q would rip himself from Bond's side and run screaming from the mansion is becoming more and more concrete as they passed by the stuffily dressed guests.

 

He couldn't back up now, not with the risk of blown covers and painful death hanging over their heads. Pulling Q closer, careful not to crowd, Bond draws a deliberate line down the back of Q's neck, tangling his fingers in the too long hair on the next pass up the same path, and presses his lips against the shell of Q's ear. “Relax,” he murmurs, not missing the way Q jerks in surprise, breath whistling through teeth as he tries to do as Bond asks.

 

Bond knows that, to any outsider, they are the affectionate couple, just a little too caught up in the corner with their stolen minutes. They gain no curious looks - the party is made up of couples like them. Bond concentrates on Q: his cologne, the fine feathering of hair at his temple, his rapidly fluttering lashes, gently feeding Q encouragements and platitudes until he calms down enough for the rigidness to fade. 

 

Q's eyes no longer flit; instead, they are now carefully tucked beneath a layer of careful vigilance, one he cultivates for briefing agents and meetings in Six.

 

He catalogues the room with Bond, waiting for the roar of blood in his ears to fade, both if them taking in the room and the mingling couples in comfortable silence, assessing their surroundings with mutual understanding, until Q gives the finger at his hips another squeeze, this one of gratefulness and determination. Q is ready, and Bond pulls them back into the fray.

 

Socializing is a nuanced art for Bond, one he never had any trouble mastering and manipulating. Reading and coaxing reactions in and out of bed comes naturally to him, a talent that he applies judiciously to strangers he meet, if only to not to turn rusty. There's a certain enjoyment in indulging the artificially of it all, trading jokes and greetings with a shipping tycoon and his boyfriend, the Prince of Scandinavia, complementing the dresses of a socialite couple, and recounting a particularly daring tale of him skydiving to a dowager and her much younger fiancée. 

 

It's exhilarating to slip into their society, a cuckoo amongst secrets and hidden agents, teasing out useful gobbets to store in his arsenal for his usage. 

 

He watches Q from the corner of his eye, the smaller man assimilating like a duck to water, face genial and politely interested in a hitherto unfamiliar way, a far cry from the relaxed lines of his mouth when they're alone. Out of his element and thrown in the fire, and yet Q has taken all this in his stride, with only the slightest stumble. Bond is surprised by the surge of fierce pride at Q's adaptability, but he sets it aside for when he could afford to analyse it.

 

It must have shown on his face nonetheless, and the dowager, a rather dowdily dressed middle aged woman, beams and leans in conspiratorially. “Darling, you're so very lucky! It's hard to find a decent man nowadays.”

 

Q blinks, halting in his story on his travels as a writer. It's amazing the details one could come up with based on a diet of unrealistic movies and TV shows. “Pardon?”

 

The dowager nods at Bond, taking a sip from her glass. “He looks at you like you hung the moon, dearie. You've been married for, what, a year now?” At Bond's affirmative hum, she sighs. “Practically forever! I've never seen a couple so in love, darling. He's a keeper.” She mock whispers, giggling as her fiancée rolls her eyes playfully and smacks her arm.

 

“Oh yes,” Q tilts his chin to meet Bond's gaze, the amber gaze unreadable. “Love of my life, he is. Couldn't imagine it without him.” Q is hard to read at times, always pushing and subverting Bond's predictions, and right now, he's downright opaque.

 

Unperturbed, Bond curls his lips into a smile, eyes already making another circuit around the room, halting at a newcomer. 

 

There is tall, striking woman in flowing silk reclining against the open bar, alone but in the spotlight, her presence unassuming yet quietly commanding as she sips from her drink with subtle grace. The wide berth around around her is startling, and the guests around the fringes glance at her from time to time with nervous smiles. Young, aristocratic, aloof. Bond is certain that if he were not here with Q, he'd be halfway into seducing her to bed. 

 

“Excuse me, darling, ladies,” he gives them a formal bow and Q an apologetic smile. “I find myself in want of something stronger. Why don't I just go and grab a drink and I'll be right back.” Q eyes lights in understanding as Bond gives the inside of his wrist a tap. Bond brushed a light kiss on Q's lips, not missing the way his lashes flutter close and another delicious blush bloom high across his cheekbones.

 

He saunters across the room to the bar, aware of half the people's eyes trained on him and the howling of the beast rising up his throat. Let them stare; the hunt has just begun. It's only the fact that Q is most likely watching, trusting him with his life, that stops Bond from pulling his more reckless moves.

 

Up close, she's stunning, a lithe, imposing figure and exuding confidence from her tight chignon all the way to her sky high Louboutins, her lightly made up face and delicate bone structure belies sharp, calculating eyes.

 

“Vodka martini, shaken not stirred,” Bond ordered, noting with satisfaction as she tilts her head slightly in acknowledgement of his presence. He took a sip from the drink as it was slid across the table to him, rolling his tongue around the dry, tart flavour. Perfect. She grace him with an amused smile, the patronizing set of her lips a beckoning challenge to Bond.

 

“You seem awfully alone.” Best to play it safe with a plain enough line, hopefully tame enough not to scare her off and intriguing enough to stave her from boredom. 

 

Her eyes swept across his figure, a spark of interest lighting her dark brown eyes. “You're the fifth person to tell me this today.” She has the soft French accent of the refined, her vowels rounded and voice lilting.

 

“Somehow I doubt they had the same intentions as I do.” He kept a respectable distance between them, a large enough space for her to graciously decline his approach but looming enough to broadcast his interest.

 

“Oh?” She meets his gaze with a half lidded stare, eyes slowly travelling down his body again. “Enlighten me.”

 

Bond closed in with practiced movements, body turned fully towards her, fingers stroking the inside of her free wrist, broaching her personal space. She responds with charming predictability, eyes heating as she cast them down, looking coyly up through the lashes. He leans in close to whisper, voice rough and low. “Judging by your guest list, I'd say none of them are interested in getting to know you as intimately as I do.”

 

She smiles wryly. “You're setting yourself up for disappointment here.”

 

He keeps his eyes resolutely on her. “Good thing I'm a gambling man then. What do you say we give it a spin before you decide on disappointment?” The line was camp, souring with embarrassment on his tongue, but he's did worse to capture the attention on his marks, and this would be the most likely to attract Dupont’s interest.

 

It works, and she giggles. “That sounds  _ very _ agreeable.” She plants a hand on his chest, slowly drawing it down. Bond tracks her progress, impassioned, remembering to increasing his breathing rate as she dips lower, hours of training coming into play. “But don't you think your,” her eyes darts to the right and she inclined her head to the curious masses of the party. Bond does not follow her gaze. “Partner will object, Mr…?”

 

He pressed in closer. “Thomson. Arnold Thomson. And I think you'll find my husband and I do have quite an open relationship.”

 

She grins the fox wide smile of the cunning, a dangerous spark of satisfaction flashing in her eyes. “Dupont. Renée Dupont, delighted to make your acquaintance.” She turns fully now, her long chandelier earrings jangling softly. Her hand slipped off his chest to dangle loosely by her side as she props an elbow on the counter. “Would you introduce me to this delightful partner of yours?” 

 

Bond did a quick evaluation before turning smoothly towards where Q is standing, body stiff and movements jerky, slowly losing the fight to anxiety without bind to ground him. He starts a little at Dupont’s suggestion, but managed to disguise the hand that came up to press his earwig as raking through his hair. It might be best for Bond to go over now. “Of course,” he proffered an arm for Dupont. “Why not?”

*

Q practically melts into his arms as Bond circles his waist from behind, turning his head to collect a kiss that was more desperate than needed. A small part of his brain warned him from taking advantage of the situation and the resultant withdrawal. It's only a mission, and Bond is never this sweetly affectionate. He parsed out the thought, focusing instead on Bond's murmured “Good job.”

 

Clearly, spending the majority of his time down in Q branch did no favours in improving his social skills. He was ready to pull a weak excuse and make a run for it as the dowager’s smile became more and more strained, and her fiancée had taken to discreetly checking her phone a few minutes after Bond had dropped the code word to engage with the mark. He'd heard their conversation through the earwig, of course, and celebrated their successful contact by indulging in a nip to Bond's jaw. “Darling, you're back! And just when I was starting to worry.”

 

Bond took the clinginess in his stride. “You worry too much, darling.” He nods at Dupont, gesturing between the two of them. “David, I'd like you to meet Mme. Dupont. Mme. Dupont, David.”

 

Q could see the dowager’s eyes widen, and she gave a hurried bow and swept off, murmuring her thanks for being invited and gosh, is that the Countess of Jersey? Really should ask her how she's been.

 

Q smiled at Dupont with polite grace, kissing the back of her hand. Bond noted the satisfied flash in her eyes again, but kept it aside in favour of watching Q regain control.

 

“Well, Mr Thomson, I don't mean to be awfully blunt, but it seems like your husband just made a rather clandestine proposition.” Dupont’s lips curled into another sly smile again and she wraps a casual arm around Bond's bicep, as if staking a claim. “I just wanted to makes sure it really  _ is _ mutual before I start anything.”

 

Q felt the curling of an ugly beast in the pit of his stomach, an edge of jealousy fermenting in his veins and urging him to grab Bond and snarl. Dupont gives him a bad feeling, with her ability to seek weakness and instinctively exploit,and it's clear that she's so familiar with such games that she's wielding it with admirable dexterity, daring to taunt and tease even in public.

 

Q gave a tight smile, fingers flexing around Bond's arm and feeling it tighten in response. The mission, he reminds himself, trying to clear his brain. Don't hit her. 

 

“Oh yes, we've had this arrangement for quite some time now,” Q is surprised by how steady his voice is. “I've tried it out a few times myself, but lately I haven't been able to find anyone of my taste.”

 

Dupont’s grin looks more like a shark's now, and Q wondered just how she could make him feel so strongly with just a smile and a few sentences. “Wonderful. Unfortunately,” she gave an affected sigh. “It would seem awfully callous of me as a host to start dealing with matters in the middle of my party. Why don't you two stay over for a few days while we work out a, ah, business arrangement?” Without waiting for an answer, she gave them both a kiss on each cheek, which Bond received with only the slightest hint of displeasure. “I know someone who might just be your type. He can entertain you while I keep your husband busy.” She throws a knowing look at Q.

 

They watch her leave, the crowd parting around her.

 

“I don't think I like her much.” Q commented mildly.

 

Bond scoffed. “You don't like many people. She's not exactly hitting the roof with charm and likability, so it's not much of a surprise.”

 

Q pursed his lips, emptying the contents of his drink to avoid bantering. 

 

Bond, ever the observant one, tilts his head to look at Q, concerned. “Are you alright? She didn't mess you up to bad, did she?”

 

Q twitched at the mocking tone. Bond is trying to cover up his over protectiveness with a taunt, but that doesn't mean he still appreciate the babying. As rare as it is for Bond to show sympathy and concern for his partner on the field, Q can and will handle himself. “We should inform M of the change in plan. Her invite to stay could buy us a few days to properly monitor her systems without any chance of detection. It's an opportunity we should take.”

 

Bond hummed, mind already drifting to what he could pack. “Are we still going through with the plan tonight?”

 

Q glanced down at his watch, one that he has equipped with a night vision scope and several sharp blades. “We should. We have around an hour before it goes into action, by the way.”

 

Bond, with his impeccable body clock, nods. “And in the meantime, I suggest we pretend to get very, very drunk and handsy indeed.”

 

“Right,” Q snagged another drink off a passing waiter. “Just try not to misuse the situation as a chance to cop a feel.”

 

“Why, my dear David, how could you say such a thing!” Bond draws Q closer, daring to brush their lips together lightly, feeling Q shiver and draw back.

 

“Watch it.” Q said grumpily, but allows himself to nestle close. 


	4. Chapter 4

An hour didn't take long to pass, not with Q by his side, snarkily commenting on others and wondering aloud on the kinds of tech he could install in the grand space. Bond responds to the quips with dry humour, enjoying the way Q laughs at his jokes and finding himself cracking a few genuine grins. They are largely ignored by the other guests, with only a few critical glares thrown their way, less now as Dupont started to socialize.

 

Bond catches Q looking at his watch surreptitiously for the umpteenth time, and nudges him gently. “It's time. Would you like to give them a show?”

 

Q shrugged, finally putting down the glass he was toying with. “Bugger it. If I'm going to go, I'd rather go big.”

 

“That's the spirit.” Bond murmured, hands moving surer now, drawing smooth lines up Q's arms, letting his fingers follow the unbroken line of the suit, paying homage to the man before him. Touching Q is different from touching Dupont; this is someone he trusts with his life, someone who does so much to keep him safe with gadgets and surveillance, who goes out of his way to help him, who is strong and brave and witty and a much better person than Bond will ever be. It's not hard to pour his respect and appreciation back to Q, letting the spark of his arousal catch and burn as Q threads tentative fingers around his tie, to follow the parting of Q's luscious lips and sweetly hesitant tugs into a kiss.

 

Q kisses like home, the familiar catch and pull of teeth and tongue like a lover who has memorised his ways. He probably planned it that way too, using the hours spent overseeing Bond seduce women and applying it to the here and now. He melts into the kiss, moaning softly as Bond tilts his head and find out Q's sweet spot, and Bond could stay here forever, drinking in the taste of Q and only Q.

 

They pull away for air, Bond still chasing Q's lips, chest slightly heaving and skin tingling. 

 

“Well,” Q says, voice deliciously rough as he smooths his hair in a nervous gesture. Bond had the intense urge to grasp the curls and tug, if only to see the reaction. “That should do it.”

 

Bond placed his hand tantalisingly low on Q's back, guiding him towards the stairwells. A few guests are already throwing them amused, knowing looks, and Bond gives the a cheeky ‘what can you do?’ smile in return. Ducking his head to mouth at Q's neck, he growled loud enough for the group of middle aged men chatting in the corner to hear, “Why don't we take this to somewhere more private?”

 

Q giggled, a strangely sweet sound, and dragged Bond up the stairs and past the first corridor. They both had the layout of the place memorised, but Bond trust that Q had a better idea of where to go to reach the control room. Q have yet to protest about the body contact; in fact, he seems to welcome it. Bond deduced that it was more of a physically reassurance in a stressful, foreign place than anything else. It struck him as odd that Q, usually aloof and self sufficient in the bunker under the building, would want so much skin to skin contact, but whatever the case, it seemed to settle him.

 

Q disabled the security cameras with a few taps on his phone, occasionally glancing up with darting eyes, as if calculating the fastest route. Dupont’s mansion is a maze of hallways and rooms; a security nightmare, but confusing enough that any potential burglar will get trapped before long. Behind him, Bond had already drawn his Walther, body adjusting and covering their backs, with a single, light touch still on him. It would be easy to brush it off or feel irritated by the contact; god knows he has done it to anyone who tried back at Six, but Bond's touch has a calming effect, and Q rationalised it as relief that someone so dangerous and with a license to kill is on his side.

 

He stopped before a room marked ‘cleaning supplies’ with a small keypad in the corner, inconspicuous and innocent. Slotting the all access security card through the pad, he smiled with satisfaction as the door unlocked with a quiet ‘snick'. Bond is pressed against his back in an instant, ushering Q in with small nudges.

 

The control room is heaven compressed in a dingy broom cupboard. Compact monitors filled the limited space, the familiar click-whirl of each palm sized computers a soothing reminder. Wires flow along the walls and the floor, a tangle of blue, green and white, firmly corded together, leaving only a small patch of cleared space in the near the far corner where a giant screen has been mounted. Flowing data scrolled past in an automated stream, input scrambled and bounced off thousands of different systems and addresses before feeding nonsense words and numbers on the screen, a virtually untraceable programme on a delicate balance that has Q just itching to decode.

 

He remembers coding this on a Saturday night, running on nothing but crisps, takeout, and red bull, surrounded by his band of misfits connected with a single passion. It took a whole week and a half, and he, high on self importance and hubris, put it up on the market the very next day as the best security system there ever was. It was not the slightest bit true, of course; Silvia had managed to hack through most of his best safeguards, a memory which still make him cringe with bitterness, but faced with the invention of his long forgotten youth, it's easy to revert back to that thought.

 

Part of him wants to get down on his knees and start tinkering with everything in sight, connecting and modifying the innards of each device to break them all down, until each beautifully complex model lie in a compartmentalised heap and his hands ache with satisfying fatigue.

 

Instead, he settles for plugging in the thumbdrive, one loaded with his specially constructed virus, cooing softly to the screen and coaxing his invention to run it's course. He's only met with a few pathetically weak countermeasures on the way, all designed by him half a lifetime ago, which he destroyed with laughable ease. Dupont may have had an impressive security measures, but she had forgotten all about the creator of the programme.

 

He finished securing the system with a few minutes to spare, brutally hacking and evading his way to the core, his virus efficiently erasing any trace of him being there. It's easy to nestle the surveillance in the middle, indistinguishable under lines of almost identical code, sending a direct live feed back to Q branch to monitor. Bond, who had kept half an eye on his progress, made a vaguely impressed sound.

 

Q smiled, already flushed with the adrenalin of a successful hack, and cracked his neck to relieve some of the tension and adjusted the frequency of his earwig.

 

“Q reporting. Is the system online?”

 

“Affirmative.” R’s reassuring voice sounded on the other end. It was strange to hear her from thousands of miles away instead of from across the room. “It's connected and broadcasting. We're downloading and analysing anything of import. We'll update if there's anything of interest.”

 

“Thank you.” Q ejected the thumbdrive, scanning one last time to check for any irregularities. Turning to Bond, he signaled for them to make their way out.

 

The normally fidgety agent had barely moved from his position, hands relaxed but ready by his side, the Walther with it's safety off gripped loosely and ready to fire. Bond gave a tight nod, the playful fire in his eyes all but distinguished, leaving only the mission fueled coldness blanketing in its wake.

 

Their trip back to the ballroom passed without incident, as easy as their accessing the control room. The wind down the halls in silent communication, having worked with the other long enough to anticipate what they need.It’s a little  _ too  _ flawless; enough to make the back of Bond's neck and set his instincts screaming. It could be a trap; it  _ has _ been a trap before, getting two of MI6’s assets on seek and destroy missions, away from where diplomatic ties could save them. Given his track record with missions, anything less than an explosion or ten was starting to become very suspicious to him. Bond shakes his head. Overtrained and overarmed, two of the worse combination. He tucks it at the back of his mind, together with Dupont’s flashing eyes.

 

They're connected, he's sure of it, but it's better to go in guns blazing when he's surer of the details rather than act on his hunches alone, even with the snarling beast in his mind snaps at him to. He tries to connect the dots, absentmindedly checking the corners and steering Q around them, grasping the ends of an increasingly elusive conclusion. 

 

“Wait,” Q stops him as they passed a blind spot, gesturing for Bond to come closer. Bond obliged, holstering his gun and glancing to his sides. At his questioning look, Q tugged determinedly at his tie and leans in for a kiss.

 

Bond reciprocated instinctively, lips sliding smooth across Q before he froze. Cheeky little shit, he chuckled as the kiss turned messy, his hands tangling in messy hair as Q nips, teeth coming out to worry his lips, clever fingers creasing his shirt. Bond combs through the curls, messaging into the scalp before he  _ tugs _ , and Q gives a quiet little whine, pressing closer than before. Interesting. 

 

It’s a miracle that they managed to separate themselves, and Bond could guess from Q’s tight nod and panting self that they both look like a right mess. Threading their fingers together, Bond lets Q pull them back into the ballroom.

 

The guests stare, of course they do, although they looked more entertained than scandalised. They are not the first, it seems, to engage in such liaisons; there were a few already necking in private alcoves, and a couple brushed past them in a haste to get to the hallway.

 

Dupont gave them a knowing smirk and blew them a kiss. “You boys really do get busy, don't you.” She winked as Bond threw her his most charming smile. 

“Got to take care of my husband and his needs.” Bond gave a gentle pat to Q's bum, and the squeak and glare he receives aren't entirely false. “He's not used to such events but he did magnificently today.” Ducking to nuzzle behind Q's ear, he said, “Good boys deserve a treat.”

 

He feels the shiver that runs down Q's spine and his slightly condescending pat on the head. “Yes, and naughty boys like you need to learn how to reign it in, darling.” He smiles wryly at Dupont, who laughs at Bond's playfully put out expression. “Mme. Dupont, so wonderful of you to invite us here tonight. I do apologise, but we must be going now.” He leans in for another cheek kiss. “We'll be here tomorrow at ten in the morning for our business discussions?”

 

Dupont leaned back, slight look of admiration colouring her face. “Of course, my dear. So glad you're on board with the plans!” She pats his shoulder and gestures for the footman. “I'm so excited to introduce to you someone who could, ah, occupy you during your stay.”

 

Great. Q gritted his teeth and smiled. “I look forward to it.”

 

Later, in the Aston Martin on the bumpy road home, Q very vehemently protested, “I do  _ not _ look forward to it.”

 

It was fully dark, with only the light of the moon and the sparse street lamps lighting their way. Bond's face in hidden in the shadows as he steers the Aston Martin over what feels like every pothole in the French countryside, but Q could feel him smiling. “It's our best way in.” He reminded Q.

 

Q huffs, but didn't comment. He's been guiding agents long enough to know that a honeypot requires less energy and risk less damage, both to the agent and the mark. Bond wields his body as another weapon; it's natural he'd go for the easier route first. “It doesn't feel right,” he mentions cautiously, knowing that with the high of the mission still burning through him, it might not take much for Bond's suspicion to turn into full blown paranoia.

 

But Bond only shakes his head. “Gut feeling count for nothing if you don't have the evidence to back it up, no matter how small it is.” He taps the steering wheel as they bounced over another pothole. “I've seen better agent destroyed by their irrationality. Instincts could potentially save your life, but when you've played the game for so long,” His hand itched to brush over the scar on his right thigh, a knife wound that only just missed the femoral artery. “It has the tendency to betray you.”

 

Q's eyes glitter in the darkness, words and questions hanging from his lips. He pressed them shut, and nod, settling back into the seat in silence, and Bond is glad for it. It's been a long night for them both, and he didn't feel like starting on a another story. 

 

They were minutes away from the hotel when Q touched his earwig again. “R? Could you connect me to Tanner?” There's a pause, and then Q spoke up again. “Change of plans, we've been invited to Dupont’s mansion. Expected duration to be from three days to a week. It'll be easier to hack into other surveillance and tracking systems she might have, and Bond has a higher chance of securing more information. Tell M.” Another pause, as they both stared ahead, the hotel coming into view. “Yes. Yes, sir. Very well, sir. Good night.”

 

“We have the go ahead from M to proceed with Dupont’s invitation.” Q informed Bond quietly as they made their way into the hotel lobby, the car away and parked by the valet. Q makes a note to install better suspensions. The thing is hell on his back. “Best way in,” he repeated.

 

Bond grunted and slid the keycard through the sensor, opening the door. There is the uncomfortable awareness of the physical distance growing between him and Q ever since they left the mansion and broke their covers, more obvious now that they're back in the hotel room with him roaming the area, doing his customary sweep. The cool night breeze coming from the ocean only served to amplify the missing warmth. There are days where his old bones crave the heat of another next to him, and the heady taste of Q on his tongue only makes the ache worse.

 

Q throws himself on the plush bed once Bond gave the all clear, indulging in a luxurious stretch before peeling off his jacket and tugging at the tie. As beautifully fitted at the suit might be, he's exhausted with trying to keep up appearances for the night. A quick check at the doorway shows Bond preoccupied with the minibar, and he unbuttoned the heavy wool trousers with a sigh, slipping on an infinitely more comfortable pair of gingham pajamas pants and an oversized shirt instead.

 

It's only when he's plugged in his laptop and comfortably situated in a cushy armchair that he noticed Bond staring at him hungrily, tumbler in hand.

 

“How long have you been looking?” Q asked, trying to draw himself in, balancing his laptop on his knees instead. Bond's stares are always unnerving with their unfocused ferocity, taking in all at once and giving nothing away. Something squirms low in Q's belly, more excited by Bond's eyes on him than the many kisses gifted tonight.

 

“Long enough to watch you wriggle into that monstrosity.” Bond murmured, nodding at his pajamas. 

 

Q tsked, but otherwise ignored him, letting himself sink into his work. His responsibility lies beyond this mission, and as much as R had tried to encourage him to delegate, he prefers to work on most of the projects and paperwork himself. There's a particular kind of happiness in the satisfaction of a job well done that Q has grown addicted to.

 

Bond putters around the room, surprisingly noisy, exploring the room, cleaning his guns, and finally taking a shower. Q suspects that he was intentionally loud for Q's sake, or maybe he's actually relaxed enough in the environment and Q's company to let his footsteps be more grounded than usual and his movements heavier and clumsier. 

 

It was close to two in the morning when Q finally deign to power down his laptop. He plucks off his glasses and rub his tired eyes, making glowing circles dance before him. He squints in the direction of where Bond is, who is lying on the couch, asleep, his arms folded tightly on his chest. Q knows he's not really sleeping; the rise and fall of his chest weren't deep enough. 

 

Clearing his throat, Q called out conversationally. “There’s plenty of room here. We could share.”

 

Bond blinked awake and twisted himself upright. There's the inscrutable look again, and Q patted the bed, waiting nervously for his response.

 

In the end, Bond walks over, all panther’s grace, pulling aside the blanket of slip under the sheets. Q released a slow breath, turning to busy himself with his packing.

 

When he finally clicks off the bedside lamp and curls up under the heavy blanket, Bond was already asleep, although Q could not tell if it's for real this time. He curls on his side, eyelids drooping, careful to keep a swath of space between them. Bond's presence next to him is surprisingly comforting, with none of the sexual tension from the day before, and Q falls asleep to his slow breathing. 

 

He could have sworn he felt, through the misty blur of his sleep, a whisper of a touch passing through his hair and the soft imprint of a kiss.

 

*

 

Q wakes to an empty bed and Bond doing push ups in what constitutes as the hotel room’s living room.

 

“Good morning,” Bond barely paused in his exercise, smoothly transitioning from push up to squats with tuck of his knee. Q mumbles a greeting in return, rubbing his eyes and pulling himself taut for a stretch before fumbling for his glasses. He takes a moment to admire the sweaty form of Bond through refocused vision, watching as thighs flexed and the muscles under skin shift and ripple fluidly. 

 

Bond catches him gawking with a smirk, but said nothing other than “Breakfast is served in half an hour,” before dropping down on all fours to start on burpees. 

 

Q stole a glance at the alarm clock and sighed, dragging his body to the bathroom to freshen up. Two more hours before they arrive at Dupont’s mansion, where they have to resume the tiresome job of keeping up pretenses and interact with her. There is a reason why he chose not to venture outside Q branch, except for lunch and meetings, but he was more than capable of pushing his distaste for useless niceties in order to complete the job. Besides, from what he had seen yesterday, Dupont’s security system will be a joy to hack into and control.

 

Tearing his eyes away from Bond, who is now involved in a complicated sequence of movements, he shuffles off to the bathroom to feel more alive.

 

*

 

Bond had long forgotten what it felt like to sleep next to someone with no expectations for company. There was a time, once, with Alec, when they shared a flat together. It resulted in far more visits from the fire department than usual, but Bond had enjoyed the feeling of someone sleeping next to him, not demanding, just accompanying. 

 

Insomnia tugs at his tired mind, the beast in him still out for blood, not entirely sated by the brief contact with his mark. So, Bond took to watching the rhythmic rise fall of Q's chest, eyes tracing sharp features and fingers daring to ghost over curly hair as he waits patiently, patiently, for the muddy darkness to drag him to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

They eat their breakfast while they pack, toast with marmalade and butter and tea, steadily crunching through the pile as Q reads out a list for Bond to check.

 

Bond usually does this alone, and he's had enough practice in packing that he doesn't need the extra help, but he appreciates it nonetheless. 

 

“Gun?” Q takes a sip of tea, pen tapping against paper.

 

Bond checks the barrel and clicks on the safety. “Check.”

 

“Extra cartridge?”

 

“Check.” He tosses the box into the luggage, next to the socks. 

 

“Radio transmitter?”

 

“Check.”

 

“Bazooka?”

 

Bond stills. “What?”

 

Q hides a smile with his teacup. “Just needed to make sure you weren't just saying ‘check' on autopilot. And  _ don't get any ideas,”  _ he warns as Bond gives him his best try at puppy eyes. 

 

Bond pouts. “You're no fun,” he said, turning back to the luggage. Unzipping one of the hidden compartments, he crammed his weapons in, sealing it shut with a couple of sweaters and condoms shoved against the seams.

 

The ride to the mansion is better than yesterday's, with Q only tensing a little as the top of the grand house came into view. His fingers drew nonsense patterns on his laptop bag, and he forced himself to look out of the window, counting the number of sheep they pass. 

With an impulse that he had come to associate with Q, Bond reached across the console and laid his hand on top of Q's, gun calloused palms rubbing soothing circles around knuckles. Q flexes his fingers, but made no move to pull away.

 

“You need better car suspensions.” Q blurted out as they drove through h the snarling gargoyles. “Maybe even a machine gun or two, or I could have it spill thumbtacks, just for good measure-”

 

“Q,” Bond said calmly, rounding the fountain in the middle of the drive way. Q quietens at his tone, the excited tilt of his mouth evening out. “Your ideas sound marvelous.”

 

Q brightens up at that, shoulders pulling away from his ears and his eyes sparkling with unspoken ideas. It's breathtaking to witness the transformation, and Bond resolved to praise Q more, if only to put that happy look on his face.

 

*

Dupont is talking to a man when they alight, the staff hauling away their luggages to deposit in their room, possibly going through them in the process. Bond is instantly on high alert, scanning and assessing the newcomer, darting eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. Male, early thirties, tall and fair haired. The well cut coat he has on could be hiding a few nasty surprises, but his slim build hints more at a cushy job than a trained assassin. He has a brown laptop bag slung over his shoulders, and a loud laugh. There is a hundred and two ways he could kill, or at least incapacitate the man, from this distance.

 

Beside him, Q had gone rigid. Bond automatically reached for his Walther.

 

“Ah, Arnold, David!” Dupont turns to them, her accent stretching out the vowels pleasantly. With her immaculate dressing and flawless makeup, she is admirably put together, despite the early hour and the party last night. 

 

“Mme. Dupont.” Q greeted stiffly, his eyes never leaving the fair haired man's face, even as he receive the cheek kisses with perfect politeness. 

 

“David, darling, I'd like to introduce you to Joshua. He's the head of my security department. Didn't you say your book was on a similar subject? I'm sure you two will have so much to talk about.”

 

Q bared his teeth in a smile, reaching out to shake Joshua’s hand. “A pleasure.”

 

Joshua’s smile is blinding despite the icy reception. His face holds only the slightest surprise. “David, issit? Nice to meet you, man. Renée told me so much about you and your, ah, husband.”

 

Bond cocked his head. “Really?” he said softly, although he had discreetly moved his hand away from the holster. The smile and American accent seem genuine enough, and he didn't have the calm, eye of the storm stillness of another agent. If not for Q practically turning into a stone next to him, he would have passed Joshua off as a civilian.

 

Joshua gestured vaguely. “Yea, man. I mean, we're friends, man, we're friends. Sure, it's been a year since I asked her if I could put my hands on that sweet new system she got, and I've been working for her ever since, but she's real friendly, so we're cool. She talks to me about stuff, y’know, when we're chilling together. Renée here got a damn interesting life, always having new people over.” He gives Bond a knowing look. “Nice meeting you, man.”

 

“And you too.” Joshua’s enthusiasm is slightly unnerving, and Q's tense silence even more so.

 

He's missing something, from the way Joshua is eyeing Q like a piece of meat and Q pressing his lips in a thin line, refusing to speak even when Bond shoots him a questioning look. 

 

It was only when Dupont gave Joshua her goodbyes, her cheek kisses and murmured words oblivious to the tension surrounding Q, and turned to go that Q finally addressed him.

 

“Joshua.” Q sounds less than impressed, a twist of disgust in his lips.

 

Surprise flickers across Joshua’s face. “Well, you remember me after all.”

 

“I'd really rather not.” Q is speaking in clipped words now, an undercurrent of cold anger threading into his voice.

 

“Aw, man,” Joshua reached for Q, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a familiar grasp. Bond was sure Joshua noticed Q flinch, and the need to smash the man's nose in intensifies. “You don't have to act all sulky. We were best friends!”

 

“You tried to kill me.” Q said flatly.

 

Joshua’s grin morphed into something more sinister, face melting into an uncomfortably cheery leer. “Just a little rivalry between friends.”

 

Q had gone worryingly white, and he curls in on himself, simultaneously trying to look smaller and break free.

 

Bond steps in, hand landing heavily on Joshua’s shoulder, the beast in him snarling now, begging to rip the intruder’s arm from his socket, to break his nose and dig out his heart, to protect Q, protect Q, protect Q -

 

“We'd best be off,” he says with his most dangerous smile, his words a growl under the roar of blood rushing in his ear. “Good day.”

 

He hustles Q in, barely holding on to the frayed edges of his control, hand placed low at the small of Q's back in an imitation of last evening’s possessive gesture, letting Q grip his forearm with ferocious might, knuckles drawing tight over tanned skin, a fine tremble working him over. It's hard to make out the butler's instructions, but with measured steps and calming breaths, they arrive at the guest bedroom.

 

As soon as Bond shuts the door with a mildly aggressive click, Q immediately pushed him aside, heading for the washroom in an urgent rush. Bond close his eyes and slump on the couch as he hears retching, hands still curled solidly into fists. It pains him to not be able to help, but he knows that space is the most beneficial for now.

 

He finds Q curled up next to the toilet bowl ten minutes later, forehead resting against the porcelain edge, painfully thin body drawn into a ball. The sharpness of his cheekbones are stark against the sickly pallor of skin, and his shoulderblades draw imprints in his cardigan as he gather his knees in his arms.

 

He steps into the threshold, cold floor making his footsteps sticky, kneeling down to rub Q's back. Q blinks and close his eyes, hand going to clutch Bond's shirt with heartbreaking desperation, the trembling wracking his fragile frame slowly coming to a stop.

 

Bond doesn't speak; there's nothing to say anyway, but he rubs a hesitant hand at the back of Q's neck, leaning in boldly and pressing them together, back to front, when Q tugs him close. He cards a hand through unruly hair, trying to communicate what he can't say through his actions - that he's here, that Q is safe, and that Bond is definitely going to kill that man for whatever he did.

 

“I suppose you should know about him,” Q says with a reedy sigh after a long silence. He sounds small, defeated, and Bond hurts to think how someone could make such a brilliant man become this beaten down. “He's the only part of me not in Six’s classified files.”

 

Bond shushes Q, rubbing small circles on his cold palm. “You don't have too, you know,” he says quietly. “You don't owe me anything.”

 

Q shakes his head, making to rise. Bond watch him closely, light touches to his hips and elbows helping Q stand. Setting the lid down and filling a tumbler with water from the tap, he passed it to Q, who accepts it with a wobbly smile. 

 

Q close his eyes, pressing the cool edge of the tumbler to his forehead. “You've earned more than my trust a long time ago, Bond.” Taking a swig and gargling, he spits out the water, eyes a little brighter and more determined. “I'd like to show you what happened, if that's alright by you.”

 

Bond hesitates, fingers hitching in their circular motions before they resume. “Only if you want it,” he repeats, firmly.

 

He retrieves Q’s laptop when he asks, setting it down gently on Q’s lap with the lock screen open. He sits on the ledge of the bathtub, perfectly silent and still, as Q sets down the fragile glass delicately, fingers brittle with bones wrought of china, and waits as he pulls up files after files, digging up his own ugly past. The moment is sacred and when Q finally pushes the laptop to him, Bond is, for the first time in a long time, unsure. He has not been granted the pleasure of holding something so precious in the palm of his hand for a long time, and the trust he has been so readily given makes him breathless.

 

Q’s life is told in a series of government documents, new clippings, and countless products sold on the deep web. Q is not shy; scattered amongst the many opened windows are surveillance footages, grainy and low tech, varying from rows of tables, all occupied with a computer and a person, to a man fucking another into the bed, to the same couple, one with a gun held to his head. 

 

Q wants Bond to piece the story together himself, he realised. He does not doubt Bond’s intelligence or his perceptiveness on the matter; the evidence speaks for itself.  _ More than a blunt weapon of destruction,  _ Bond’s mind whisper, sorting and piecing the puzzle piece story together.

 

Q leaves him to work, heading determinedly to the bar and pouring himself a finger of scotch. He returns with a small, squarish box - Q branch’s scrambler - and smiles wanly at Bond. “So, 007, what do you make of that?”

 

Bond had only scrolled summarily through the reports, skipping the surveillance footages altogether. He had a feeling that his self control on the sleeping beast only stretch so far. Replacing the tumbler in Q's hand with the laptop, he takes a sip of the liquid, feeling the familiar burning slide down his throat. “Joshua was a man you cared for once, back when you were young and reckless. Both of you were prominent figures in your circles, sought after for your creations, but he cheated on you, for whatever reasons. You were angry, and you tried to confront him, but he threatens to kill you instead.”

 

Q's mouth twists in a sardonic smile. “Very good, Bond,” he murmurs, just a little of the Quartermaster bleeding back into him. He balances the laptop on the sink, perching at the edge of the toilet lid again, fragile and breakable and oh, so young.

 

“I wouldn’t be a very good agent if I didn’t at least make a guess,” His attempt at humour is weak, more of a need to anchor Q in the now than anything else. “I don’t assume that that’s all.”

 

Q gestures for the tumbler, and Bond gives it to him; he probably more than earns it. Q knocks back the rest of the scotch in a gulp, his adam’s apple convulsing long after the swallow. “I and Joshua were close. Intimately so.” He fiddles with the tumbler, fingers skipping through the glass grooves and Bond stares at his bowed head, trying to quell the jealous beast stirring in his chest. “I was young and angry and too smart for my own good - a horrible combination. I met him at a hackerspace in the shabbier part of L.A with the loud city and vibrant personalities. The place wa more exclusive than the rest, and I remembered that you had to pass certain requisite tests to be admitted.” Q raised his head, eyes dreamy and nostalgic. “I thrived there. There were no rules, no restriction, only the breathless surge of creativity and excitement and that adrenaline fueled rush of dizziness after a twenty hour hacking spree. It was heaven. I rose up the ranks, going from obscurity to being recognised as one of the best. People knew me. For the first time, people were appreciative of what I did.”

 

“Joshua found me early on, still hot headed and desperate for the world to burn. He was the one who told me who to hack for maximum exposure, how to refine my scope, and then sat back and took all the credit. He was ruthless and charismatic, with everything and everyone a means to an end except, or so I thought, for me. I fell in love with him.”

 

“We were unbeatable and unstoppable. He was the leader, dictating and manipulating, and I was the creator. It was all very new, the feeling that someone actually wanted me, not just to fuck after the high of a successful hack, but also to hold afterwards.”

 

“Of course, someone from the FBI heard about us. Two men came knocking on our door one day, asking for our services. We were to design a safe and virtually untrackable system for the witness protection programme. Joshua took it, of course, not that we had a choice. He was conscious of the prestige of the job. I didn’t care, as long as it made him happy.”

 

“It was one of my best works, I think. Almost the same as the algorithm Silva used to take down Six. It was flawless, exquisite, and I was so proud of it. Then, I found out that Joshua was trying to sell my programme to the highest bidder on the dark web.”

 

“Oh, he was careful, but a project that size could never hide in the shadows.”

 

“I confronted him about it. Rushed into the room, screaming and stirring up a storm about the matter. It hurts, the betrayal. And it hurt even more when he backhanded me and pulled out his gun. A customised Colt .380 Mustang, I remembered. And then he,” Q cuts himself off, fingers circling his neck, adjusting his collar uncomfortably. “And then he wrapped his fingers around my neck and choked me with a hand, threatening to shoot me with the gun.”

 

“It never occurred to me that this could be a possible outcome. So I did the only thing that came to my mind. I electrocuted him with the ring he gave me for our second anniversary, and knocked him out with a lamp. Oh, the irony.”

 

“I spend the next year on the run, abandoning everything from my previous life, wiping every trace of myself and moving over to London. I destroyed his reputation, of course; I knew enough of his dirty secrets to tear it to shreds, and his incompetence did the rest. I created something for myself here, and another year later, I was recruited by Six.” Q shrugs, gesturing around the bathroom, careful not to meet Bond’s eye. “The rest is history.”

 

They sit in silence, Bond processing and reconciling the story and what Q showed him, Q’s darting eyes looking everywhere but at him. It is innocence lost, all over again, another painful story of unfair reality.

 

He dares to reach forward first, be the one to breach the acres of space between them,, slotting a finger under Q’s chin and tipping it up, waiting patiently, unerringly still, until Q’s eyes finally settle on him, apprehensive and soft.  _ Windows to the soul _ , he is reminded and the trust he finds there never fails to startle him. “You’re safe,” he tells Q, because it is true; he will make it true. “You’re here, and you’re safe.”

 

Q smile, slow and heartbreaking, fragile moment stretch thin as glass between them. An unspoken boundary crossed, a warm palm settling on his cheek. “I know.”

 

*

 

Bond's sweep unearths five hidden bugs, all very small and almost impossible to find. Q peers at the tiny pinpricks of technology critically, hemming and hawing and finally plucking some from his palm, eyes alight with curiosity and fingers already prodding the outer casing. He pads over to his overnight bag to dig out his tool bag, unzipping it with a satisfied smile a soft “aha”. 

 

At Bond's inquisitive look, he plucks out a screwdriver and a magnifying glass with deft hands, sitting down to pick apart the bugs. “Russian made,” he explains. “I’ve been wanting to get my hands on a few of these for forever.” The waxiness of his cheeks have started to warm up and he has tucked away the haunted look. It will take longer for the mental scars to fade, Bond knows, and although not always visible, the wound has the tendency to flare. 

 

He stays close behind Q, action born from habit as Q opens his laptop and starts his work. He understands little of the dizzying array of numbers flashing across the screen, manifesting with unfurling grace from clever fingers, but he can read the quiet joy in the lines of Q's body as he sinks into his element.

 

“Joshua’s not very good at this,” Q says, tapping his screen with a malicious little grin. “He's always been rubbish at coding, although he's got a big enough ego to make others think he is.” He snorts, adding another line of code. “My worst technician could beat him in his coding in  _ minutes _ .”

 

Bond laughs, restlessness making him pace the room again, a slow, steady tour around the room, all the while keeping an eye on Q. The guest room is admittedly lavish, more so than the hotel they've were staying at, with a comfortable looking king size bed dominating the bedroom, heavy cream canopy draping down its sides.

 

He casts a glance back, satisfied that Q is thoroughly engrossed, going closer to run his fingers through expensive sheets and deliciously plush pillows. There's a certain pleasure in the softness of it all, a promise of a night's rest and a good time, and Bond, who rarely had the first and too much of the second, appreciates the fine luxury.

 

His fingers delve through the silky pillowcase and headboard, sense singing and tingling. He's always been a tactile man in many aspects, a well kept secret. 

 

Brushing over the top of the headboard, he frowns. Tilting his head, he runs his fingers through the spot again, conforming the small lump hidden in the groove of the wood. Flicking out his pocketknife, he digs a divot around it, carving out the item beneath.

 

Another microphone, again small enough to be entirely incongruous. Dupont must be quite a voyeur to want to hear a married couple enjoying themselves before having her way with one of them. Or extremely suspicious. Either way, it didn't bode very well for the both of them. 

 

Q's scrambler should have worked for the time being, but turning it on for the rest of their stay would only lead to more suspicion, or a blowing of their covers.

 

“Honey,” Bond says, lifting the microphone carefully over. Q mumbles an absent minded ‘mhmm’, only looking up when Bond sets it by his side. His eyes widen, making the connection as he looks from the bed and back. “It seems we have the need to perform tonight.”

 

“Ah,” If Bond was looking for discomfort, he won’t find any. Q pouts in annoyance, head down again in concentration. “How tedious.”

 

“We don’t have to,” Bond hedged, carrying the microphone back when Q gave no indication of wanting to look it over. “There are other ways -”

 

“Don’t be silly, Bond,” Q says primly in a tone reserved for scolding agents when they don’t bring back their equipments in one piece. “What’s the matter? Have your proprietary suddenly found you again? We’ll do it all night long if we have to. Besides,” he continues, as if it were a reminder for a grocery run. “We’re not really doing it, are we? A lot less fun to be had by all, but nonetheless necessary.”

 

“Well,” Bond was a little taken aback, but Q was Q, and no matter how brusque and blunt he might be, Bond was happy that he was back to his old self again. “It’s a date.”

 

Q’s lips curves imperceptibly into a smile, once Bond could see and recognise, even from across the room. “Yes,” he says, the old hint of mischief colouring his voice. “Yes it is.”

*

“I don’t understand.” Bond murmurs, digging his fingers into the tight knot of muscles in Q’s muscles. The black box stands useless and off for the first and hopefully the last time on the bedside table, disguised as an alarm clock. He trails his hand down, tracing the flawless skin, dipping into the elegant valley of Q’s back. Q moaned as the tension bleeds from his body, throwing his head back with unrestrained relief. “Why are we doing this again?”

 

Q slumps back down on the pillow, spine flexing at the massage he is receiving. He turns his head at Bond’s question, a hazel eye flashing in annoyance when the fingers halt their movement. “Because,” he says imperiously, with shame absent in his voice. “I’m a horrible actor.” He melts into the sheets when Bond does a particularly tricky pushing motion that has him purring. “And you’re the one who suggested massage, so you can’t really blame me on this.”

 

“Oh yes,” Bond agrees, smiling as Q sighs loudly. “And what a terrible idea it is.”

 

It had taken forever to get Q to relax, backing off whenever he flinch at the contact, building up the pressure and touch until he has his hands are gliding in a smooth, continuous move. He’d never pegged Q as the vocal sort. As far as coping with trauma went, Q is taking it relatively well, which could be very good, or very bad. Bond decides to keep a wary eye out for that.

 

“Oh shut it, you.” Rolling his shoulders, he props himself up, glancing over his back to peer at Bond. It's a relief, seeing Q back to his cutting, playful self. “I’m never going to get what I want at this rate.”

 

Bond grins, sharp and predatory, letting loose a loud moan in response, watching as Q’s pupils dilate. Taking the risk, he swings his legs over Q’s hips, straddling the younger man, bending low to nestle his mouth next to Q’s ear.

 

“You turn,” he murmurs, soft enough that it’s only for Q to hear, pressing a small kiss to the earlobe. His hands automatically clutch harder when Q’s eyes slide close, mouth parting just the tiniest bit, wet and lush and full, the thin strand of saliva clinging to his open lips before he swipes it away. 

 

Bond grinds down, his resolve melting away, still ever conscious of their incriminating position, delighting in the Q’s gasp and the mindless way he pushes up, seeking friction. He release his grip on Q’s waist, finger by finger, slowly pushing upwards, following the natural curve of Q’s body.

 

They’ve graduated to heavy breathing now, slightly exaggerated for whatever microphone is planted there, and Q is struck by the sudden, silly urge to giggle. But the feeling passes when Bond fingers seeks a spot, pausing decisively to scratcha red line down the nape of Q’s neck, causing him to tense up with a strangled shout.

 

Immediately, the weight on his lower back is gone, and Bond’s concerned face peers at him, thumb rubbing circles over the scratch. 

 

“No, no,” Q pants, hands stretching forward and grasping at the sheets. “I like that. Again. Please?”

 

The dark look on Bond’s face clears, replaced by a deeper shadow of want, and he covers Q again with his body, heat and warmth and security when Q needs it most, hands sliding into his hair to tip his head down, teeth nibbling on the faint red line at the back of his neck.

 

It’s almost too much; the precipitation of denied desire into action, the forbidden touch of lips and fingers worshipping him. Suddenly, it’s not about the mission, or the microphone, or the potentially dangerous woman with an unknown agenda. These are selfish moments, and Q tries to clear his head to stuff as much of this as he can in his memory.

 

He’s humping into the bed now, like a horny teenager, desperate sounds escaping too real to be faked from him. He should be embarrassed, and he would have been, if Bond wasn’t encouraging him.

 

“That’s a good boy,” Bond growls, rough like his stubble, dragging over and inside of his skin. “Ah, ah, ah, don’t muffle those pretty little sounds,” he say as he shifts his attention to Q’s arse, fondling and kneading, grasping trembling thighs and tapping in Q’s chin when he swallows a shout. “I want to hear you scream for me.”

 

It’s too much, for something that’s supposed to be strictly pretend, and the rational part of Q’s mind is already dreading the aftermath. He twists to face Bond, questioning look in his eyes, trying to ask silently if they could wrap this up soon.

 

Bond understand, which is a relief, because if this continues Q will cream his pants in a truly unspectacular way. He lifts his hold on Q, maintaining only a single point of contact on the dip of his spine, massaging the little area as he purrs, “Come for me darling. Now.”

 

Q squeeze his eyes, groaning as loud as he could, the high already long wearing off and his cheeks burning scarlet red. Slumping back down, he throws a hand over his eyes, not daring to peek as Bond does his own very convincing show of coming.

 

He feels the bed bounce as Bond lands on it, panting heavily in mimicked exhaustion, sparking off another series of imagined scenes, all of them featuring a naked and very interested Bond. And it’s not like this was something to be branded as a mark in their relationship, professional or otherwise, but the slight catching of calloused palms on the sensitive area of his back, the firm squeeze on his cheeks, the sudden realisation that he had wanted this for a long time, and that he’d let his composure slip after the recollections of Joshua -

 

He escapes to the bathroom, blanket wrapped around his erection, Bond’s eyes burning into his back, spending as long as he could bear on the edge of the bathtub, pressing down on his arousal and sternly trying to bring himself under control. He could still feel the phantom touches, the invisible kisses stinging his skin; his neck is tingling from the bites, and a soft touch is enough for him to shiver and curl his toes. Splashing water on his face until he’s calmed down enough, he braces himself and went back out.

 

Bond is pacing leisurely outside, peering out of windows and examining furnitures, dressed only in his trousers. He looks up when Q emerge.

 

“Was beginning to think you fell in and flushed yourself away.” He says with an easy smile, as if nothing has changed between them. Overwhelming relief fills Q, but also crushing disappointment. He decides that the latter is nonsensical and instead focused on the former.

 

“You wish,” he retorts, spreading the blanket neatly back on the bed. Whatever had transpired between them is illogical and unquantifiable, and therefore best to be forgotten. A flawed way of thought, but it gets him through the worst of times. “You’ll have to spend another six months breaking in a new quartermaster and lord knows how the poor bastard would manage.”

 

Bond laughs. “True. M already gives me hell for the money I’m blowing on lost equipments. He’ll burst an artery if I lose you.”

 

Q smiles at that, plausible as it is, and glanced over to check that the scrambler is turned on, shifting over the objects and stationary on the table to heft his laptop on it. 

 

He loses himself in his work, tying up loose ends and filling in the gaps of the connection, relaying back and forth with Q branch, setting in place safeguards around the perimeter. Bond lets him work in peace, an act that he’s grateful for, and the reassuring domestic noises of him flipping through newspaper and unpacking his luggage lulls him into safety.

 

Q doesn’t want to speak of the change, and that might come down to the partly true stereotype of him being awkward and socially incompatible. But he’s smart enough to know that silence, and the one he’s sharing with Bond, is a way of speaking too. Q lets Bond’s assurance wrap around him, and they while away their afternoon in agreeable company, breathless in anticipation for more.


	6. Chapter 6

Dinner was a thoroughly uncomfortable affair.

 

They’re seated around the ornate dining table, set in the too large room, where Dupont had brought it upon herself to invite Joshua over. Q almost got back up to the room, mind already wildly cooking up an excuse, but the rational part of his mind barks at him to stay and meet mission objective. Bond's presence helps somewhat, especially when he twines his fingers through Q’s, or when he brushes the pulse point with steady strokes. In the end, he allows himself to be coaxed into the seat, skittish as a spooked pony.

 

Q pokes at his roasted pheasant dismally, wishing for the comfort of his subterranean workshop and the soothing chatter of his technicians. The food was good, and the setting utterly beautiful, but the way Bond keep not so subtly flirting with Dupont and the way Joshua eyes him  from across the table is more than enough to make him twitchy again.

 

"You never told me what you're doing since we last met," Joshua says pleasantly, the same greedy gleam lighting his eyes again. Q has the sudden, irrepressible urge to stick his ornate silver fork into the side of his neck, where the carotid artery lies. The trajectory of the blood spray means that Dupont will suffer the brunt of the attack and the resulting aftermath will have the advantage of finishing the bastard off.

 

"I'd rather not discuss it here." Q says bluntly, keeping his head down and shredding his food into ever smaller bits. Beside him, Bond finds  his hand under the table and tightens his grip, tapping away with his forefinger.  _ Play nice, _ he says in Morse.  _ It'll be over soon _ . He finished off with a soft stroke with his thumb, inexplicably tender and out of place, and the earlier discomforting confusion fills him again.

 

It would soon be over, because he's almost done excavating all of the information she has uploaded, scores of information, enough to implicate every major crime organisation in the country. The final algorithm he has to deploy is ready by tonight, and if all goes well, they can leave after tomorrow, with victorious hearts and an empty mansion. 

 

All that's left for him to do is smile, play his part, and get through the evening with as little fuss as possible. He blocks out the sight of Bond laughing with Dupont, obviously enjoying himself (or is he?), concentrating instead on memories of his cats, the clacking of keyboard, the softness of his favourite cardigan, the feel of Bond's lips on his shoulders. Impenetrable in his armour, and only slightly perturbed by the last memory, he glanced up, trying his best to start a conversation.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, flashing a half genuine smile. "It's been a long day, and I hate to talk about work in front of polite company."

 

"No problem man," Joshua sets his knife down, reaching over to trap Q's wrist with his hand. Q flinched violently. "We're all friends here, right?"

 

"Of course," Q says as calmly as he can, his training at Six kicking in.  _ Never show your discomfort, no matter how dire the situation _ .He can't quite ignore the way Bond's head snap in their direction, his palm almost crushing Q's. He imagined that the dangerous spark present in Bond's eyes before every kill would be present too. "We're all friends."

 

"I'm a security consultant," Joshua boasts, thankfully removing his hand before either Bond or Q could saw it off. "Been doing great for the last coupla years. Was down on my luck for the last few years, of course. Those people can't see talent went they spot one.” Q hides a vindictive smile with a duck of his head, remembering with great detail the way he destroyed every single one of Joshua’s contacts. “But then Mme. Dupont here wasn't as dumb as the others ya know. Hired me on the spot when I told her I could fortify her systems better than Fort Knox ." He nods at her and smirks sycophantically as she coos over him.

 

"He's the best I've ever had," Dupont tells Bond. "I've hardly had an attack ever since I hired him. He's a genius." The irony of her statement and the thought of his laptop connected to Q branch back in their room almost made Q burst out laughing, but he reins it in with a sombre nod. "And when I found out that he knows your dear husband, I thought that we must acquaint them once more!"

 

Q narrows his eyes. Barely anyone knows about his past, and those who do are either dead or missing, barring the case of Bond. Even the current M neither knew nor cared about this bit of information. His nerves tingled with suspicion, and he tapped out his thoughts on Bond's forearm.

 

Bond barely showed that he registered the message, but Q waited patiently, half listening to Joshua brag about his past achievements, all of them most likely leeched off someone else, and waited for Bond to reply.

 

There was a long pause as Bond continues to hold his private conversation with Dupont, before a soft tapping distracts him.

 

_ Definitely suspicious. Discuss when safe _ .

 

Q feeds himself a few bites of cold meat and resigns himself to a fruitless evening.

 

*

Seducing Dupont had been almost laughably easy, with her responding quick and predictable to carefully applied touches and compliments. She fits her stereotype well, blonde and vain and vapid, tossing her hair and fluttering her lashes at every overloaded compliment. 

 

Still, the effect is utterly incongruous with her strong features and the enigmatic twinkle in her eyes; an almost reptilian flash of intelligence and shrewdness he’d seen too many times up close and personal, usually while handcuffed to a chair. It shows itself in flashes, passing glimpses of alert consciousness like the moon through heavy mist. Dupont is a good actor, but not good enough. 

 

“There’s something she’s not telling us,” he says when he and Q are safe in their room, the area checked and secured against any threats. He shrugs off his jacket and toss it over the armchair, digging through his suitcase until he unearths a bottle of scotch. “We need to find out what it is, and fast.”

 

Q nods, slipping out of his shoes and going over to his laptop, powering on the screen. Frowning, he types out a few commands to deploy the final algorithm. “I don’t understand. How does she know about Joshua and me? The matter’s been buried so deep I doubt anyone could stumble on it on purpose.”

 

“Joshua could be the one who leaked it himself,” Bond suggests. Downing his drink, he moves to click the lock on the door, setting down the glass and carefully unpacking his weapons. “With the way he’s bragging during dinner, he’s bound to leak something even you couldn’t cover.”

 

Q lets out a sigh, running his fingers through his hair and making it stick up at the ends. Bond aches to smooth it back down with a kiss. “Yes, that’s more than possible.”

 

Bond spreads the guns out on the floor, arranging it by size and calibre, before turning his attention to the explosives. “Or the people you worked with in the past could have told. There are too many human factors to consider here, Q. You couldn’t have controlled it all.”

 

Q shakes his head, hunching to squint at the screen. “No, I specifically made sure that they would not tell, not on pain of death.” Bond hums in agreement, entirely unperturbed by Q’s way of dealing with matters. “Human factor shouldn’t be an issue, but I suppose my fear of him the first few months made me oversee the fact that he…” Q trails off, shoulders going rigid and stiff.

 

“What’s the matter?” Bond is up on his feet in an instant, moving swiftly over to the back of Q’s chair and peering over the edge. Q shifts to the side, exposing the screen to him.

 

“An anomaly.” He clicks the screen to enlarge the picture, hovering over a running list of numbers. “Someone’s been feeding information through an open channel to one Fedrick Marcel.” He clicks on the name and the receipts of the past transfers unfolds in front of them. “A disproportionately large amount of information, actually. And all done within the last day or so.”

 

“Fedrick Marcel.” Bond tilts the screen up, scanning the numbers as his brain whirls. The name itched at the back of his mind, a long gone enemy in the long list of people he’s had the misfortune to meet. “I know him.”

 

Q tugs the laptop back, pulling up a picture of a rather sharp looking man up. His mouth is turned down in a frown, and a scar stretched jaggedly from his left eye to his lip.

 

Bond nods in recognition, an almost feral smile lighting the corner of his lips at the memory. “Timbuktu, 2005. I was there to take out the local insurgent’s leader. Bumped into him quite by accident. He and I had a little misunderstanding. Apparently, he was a little  _ too _ familiar with the leader of the insurgent group. There was a tussle and I left him,” He traced the scar with almost fond remembrance. “With a parting gift.”

 

Q’s brows beetles, confused. “So who's selling him all this information? They're mostly locations and numbers, my guess is that they're security passcodes, but what is the link?” He mumbled softly to himself as he sets to work, fingers flying over the keyboard.

 

Bond tries to connect the dots manually, unconsciously stroking the gun in his hand. “It must be an inside job for you to be able to pick them up this easily. Someone with access to Dupont’s secure system.”

 

“Naturally,” Q murmurs, numerous files already popping up on the screen. “There are only so few who could have access so it could only be - oh.” He looks up at Bond, eyes wide behind rimmed glasses. Bond feels his finger tighten on the trigger in response. “Fucking Joshua,” Q growls, narrowing them in anger as he starts on the new lead. 

 

Bond leaves Q to work he stands guard, still as a stone and patient. It’s an almost familiar process, watching Q do his magic, teasing out what he wants in a matter of minutes, just like he does back at Six. He takes his customary position, watchful and silent, ready to respond and chip in if needed. Q, accustomed to his lurking, let Bond hover. His agitation at Joshua, however, seemed to itch like splinters under nails, and Bond monitors him warily, already knowing that the dam from before was about to burst. 

 

“It seems what he's been transferring links directly back to Dupont.” Q peers up at Bond, gesturing at the screen, swearing a little under his breath when he unearths Joshua’s work. “He’s not very good at hiding his tracks, though, and there a sizable leak in his defence so it shouldn’t be long before Dupont notices.”

 

Bond bends, resting his palms on the table, levelling his eyes with Q on the laptop. “What does Marcel have to do with Dupont?”

 

“Ah, that.” Q clicks on a file, showing it to him. “They were lovers. Very devoted to each other actually. Until Marcel cheated. She stole his assets and contacts, fleeing from the country to build her empire separate from him.”

 

Bond hums, fingers tapping at the corner of the keyboard. “Marcel is after Dupont then.” Straightening up, he adjusts his cufflinks, going back to the assortment of weapons still laid out on the bed. Picking up a semi-automatic, he clicks the parts into place, securing the compact firearm into his holster. “Don’t wait up, honey.”

 

Q swivels the chair to follow his movement. “Where are you going?” He demands.

 

Pausing in his task of selecting a wickedly sharp knife, he looks up. “Snaring Joshua. Getting him somewhere nice and quiet for a little chat. See if he knows anything good.”

 

He’s only slightly surprised when Q sets down his laptop to stand defiantly. “I’m coming.”

 

Bond looks him over, slight wisp of a thing, still wrapped up in constricting formal wear, looking so achingly young. Bond could see the whiteness of Q’s knuckles where the skin had tightened over clenched fist. Finally, tucking away the Walther in his shoulder holster, he says, “No. You stay here. Keep an eye on Dupont. We need her alive for now.”

 

But Q is already moving, stripping off the stiff linen shirt, shoulder blades making vivid imprints his back like bones from broken wings. “Dupont is supposed to be dead at the end of the day anyway. But Joshua is our priority. I’m coming.” His movements are jerky as he tugs on a looser shirt, shrugging on a shoulder and thigh holster with ease. “And you can’t stop me.”

 

“Q.” Bond’s voice is sharp, commanding. Q ignores him and continue to arm himself. “Q,” Bond says, softer now, almost pleading.

 

That got him to stop, fluttery hands freezing comically as he whips around, defensive.

 

“Please, stay.” Bond says quietly, daring to walk over and seize a wrist, china fine under his fingers. Q doesn’t flinch, but he nearly jerks it away. “You’re angry. And right now all you want is revenge. I can’t let you on the field. You know your emotions will only get you into danger.”

 

Q’s breaths come harshly, and his eyes burn cold. “Professionalism be damned.” He says stubbornly, tipping his chin up to stare Bond down. “I’m taking this bastard down myself.”

 

Bond makes a frustrated noise. “We don’t have time for this. Stay, or I’m making you.”   
  


“Don’t you dare.” Q hissed, ripping his wrists from Bond’s grasp, raking a hand wildly through his hair. Gathering composure, he straightens his spine and looks Bond dead in the eye. “As your superior, I demand that you let me follow.”

 

Bond stands his ground. “And as an experienced agent, I demand you stay in the bloody room and do your job.”

 

Q laughs, a little wildly. “Do my job? Let me tell you what my job is, Bond. It’s to achieve mission target and keep you safe. I can’t do that from inside the room.”

 

Bond is silent at that. Q, not knowing what else to say, paced in tight circles like a trapped animal. The clock on the bedside table ticks away the dribbled time.

 

“Is that really what your job is?” Bond says, quiet. “Because it seems to me that you’re so far gone on wanting revenge that you can’t see straight.”

 

Q rakes his hand through messy hair again. “Of course I want revenge! He tried to kill me!”

 

Bond blows out a breath, inching closer to Q, boldening and moving forward until the tip of their socked toes touch when Q’s shoulders slumps.

 

“This won’t help, Q. I’ve been there, I know.” Taking up the shaking fingers, he rubs them between his own, voice soothing and honest. He hesitates, wondering if it was wise, after the afternoon’s incident and Q’s fragile state of mind, if he should push further. “We’ll figure something out. After all of this. Go somewhere far away, disappear for a few weeks, anything you want. How about that?”

 

He could feel the moment Q gives in, fingers going slack in his and head drooping forward to rest on his chest. Suddenly, Q looks so very small, and so very tired.

 

“Yes.” He says, words muffled in Bond’s shirt. He clings tightly, holding on for dear life. “Yes, that sounds good.”

 

*

 

They go through the customary comm and weapon check before Bond leaves Q for the hunt. Q has a vague idea where Joshua is, but by picking up a digital trail, he directs Bond to the second floor of the mansion

 

“It's the third door at the second right turn.” Q's voice rings out crisp and clear in his ear, settling Bond into his mindset that he needed, mind clearing to a pinpricks focus and muscles twitching and ready. “If you go in exactly on my count, we'll be able to take him by surprise. He'll never expect it.” There's a note of vindictive glee in his voice that has Bond smiling wryly.

 

“No one expect the Spanish Inquisition.” Bond murmurs, chuckling when Q makes a strange laughing sound.

 

“This is no time for jokes 007,” Q says, trying to sound stern but mostly failing, seeing as how Bond is accustomed to his scolding whenever broken equipments gets sent back to his branch. “I don’t know why I put up with you sometimes.”

 

Bond winced. So Q’s not over being locked up in the room like a grounded teen then. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll let you watch, if you’d like.” He says lightly.

 

There is a pause before Q says, amused, “You do realise this is the most macabre way anyone has ever tried to comfort me?”

 

“Only for you, my dear Q. Only for you.”

 

Q snorts, but otherwise said nothing. Bond takes it as his cue to concentrate on the task ahead, scaling the stairs with ease and nonchalance as he makes his way up, arm swaying loose by his side, ready to grip his gun if needed. The hallway is silent and softly lit, carpeted floor masking his steps.

 

He almost reaches the end of the corridor when he hears it, the sound of scraping furniture and a scream, muffled but still clear. Cocking his head, he glanced up, trying to triangulate the source of noise.

 

“Q,” he says quietly, hand creeping under his jacket to release the Walther, green light flashing to life reassuringly under his grip. “Whose room is it above where I’m standing?”

 

Q immediately springs to action, and the clacking of keyboard follows his question. “Dupont’s room, it seems. Why? Do we have a situation?”

 

“Something’s happening” He keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, already moving towards the staircase again. “She might be in danger.”

 

Q’s voice comes in sharp through his earpiece. “She’s not our priority right now Bond. Do not go after her. I repeat, do not go after her.”

 

Too late. He sets off again, burning desire for answers and screaming instincts urging him forward. “We still need her alive.”

 

“There are other ways to extract everything she knows.” Q is exasperated now, and Bond could hear the rush of wind and footsteps in his ear: Q is pacing in agitation. “Bond, please, for once in your life, stay on task.”

 

“There are things that we need that can’t be gleaned anywhere else.” Bond argues. “We need to hear the damn words from her own mouth otherwise -”

 

He stops short at the unmistakable crack of gunshot in the air, nerves lighting in the push of adrenalin at the echoing report.

 

Q didn’t hesitate. “Go.”

 

Bond sets off at a run, taking the steps two at a time, hearing another loud crack and the unwelcomed snap of breaking bones, followed by a shriek that was most certainly Dupont’s.

 

He match his pace to the frantic typing of Q, cataloguing the muffled thumps reverberating the walls. “Bond, I've got access to Dupont’s room.” Q’s rattles off his findings. “There a man, mid thirties, about 220 pounds, armed. Dupont’s the one that fired, no visible signs of damage from the two of them, but he's most certainly broken her wrist.”

 

“Got it,” he grunts, rounding the corner at a sprint, pinpointing the exact room where the door had been flung open, a broken chair lying splayed outside, a bullet hole punched on the wall across the doorway. Flattening himself against the entrance of the room, he mentally calculates, from the grunts and smashing furniture, where the attackers are.

 

Giving himself the count of three, he twists around, body low and aim true, angling for the north-east corner of the room and firing off two shots. He takes the split second to assess the room, in shambles, and the huge, hulking man, dragging Dupont to the ground by her hair. He roars in pain as the bullet grazes his arm, firing back blindly in a fit of rage.

 

Bond steps to the side and fires again, instinctively, his shots close enough to frighten the man to release his hold on Dupont, turning around to focus on his attacker.

 

Bond push himself to the corner, hidden from the other man’s view by the closet, in his blind spot. He takes a breath, squaring his shoulders as his focus narrows, target etched clearly on the man’s head, trigger finger ready. The steady calm spreads cool and balmy through his veins, another kill, another mission accomplished.

 

He squeezes the trigger just as a force hits him squarely on the back, punching his breath from his lungs and making him stumble. He doesn’t register the pain, he never does, only the gunshot. 

 

It’s a lucky miss, the bullet landing high on his shoulder in the mangled lump of scarred flesh from his previous wound, but unfortunate enough for his shot to go wide.

 

“He has backup!” Q sounds irate and sharp, never a good sign.

 

Bond groans, flattening himself against the wall once more, trying to staunch the bleeding. “How extremely helpful.”

 

“Shut up and try to get him, you?” Curiously, the typing has stopped, replaced by the sound of wind. Q must be pacing again. “Bond -!”

 

He didn’t have time to readjust when a solid weight crashes into his back, pushing him forward until he’s falling face first. He manages to jerk aside at the last second, just barely avoiding a broken nose, using the momentum of his motion to swing his good hand around into a punch.

 

The man who tackled him is shorter than his partner, stouter and packed with muscles, making his hits hurt even more when he returns the strike, but he’s slow, clumsy and untrained in hand to hand combat, and Bond easily anticipate his moves after a few moments of ear ringing pain. 

 

With a grunt, he grabs at the man's wrist, twisting it to the side to punch at his nose, the dull throb of his arm intensifying for a few excruciating seconds. Rolling over, he straddles the bleeding man, a hand at his throat, scooping up the Walther where it had landed. There is the flash of recognition in the man's eyes, where death is near enough to circle his ankle and drag him down, allowing for the precious window of life to glimpse through.

 

Bond doesn't hesitate. He's seen it too many times to bother him. Instead, he presses down hard, throbbing pulse rocketing under his fingers, and shoots him point blank. The man jerked once and went satisfyingly still. 

 

Weirdly enough, Q was not there with a pithy comment or a situation check, and the radio silence worried Bond for a while before he realised the screaming had stopped.

 

“Get up.”

 

Slowly, with his hands in the air, he rose from a crouch, rivulets of blood running down his sleeves, both his and not, deadly aware of his precarious position. He deliberately peers up with exaggerated caution, mind blissfully blank and crowded with bloodlust.

 

The other henchman has his hands in Dupont’s hair again, pulling her head painfully back, his bleeding dominant hand holding the gun loosely by the side of her forehead. Dupont cradles her broken wrist, a wide gash trickling sluggishly at her hairline, her eyes burning with untamed anger.

 

“Drop the gun.”

 

Bond does as he's told, knowing he Walther is useless without him holding it anyway. They stand, a tableau of hostility, waiting for the next signal. The smell of the dead man's bowels emptying spills into the room, fermenting the tension and the air they breath. Bond relaxed his fist, holding his open palms of surrender close to his chest.

 

“Good.” The man says, and pulls the trigger. 

 

Bond's lunging forward before the man could tighten his finger, barreling into his stomach like a rugger, baring his teeth in a grin as the shot goes wide. He kicks his leg out, catches Dupont by the side of her head, pushing her aside as she gives a little scream. 

 

Their hand to hand combat is quick, vicious, hard jabs and kicks intended incapacitate, no holds barred. The man is obviously skilled, his punches hard enough to break ribs and knock out teeth, and Bond struggles to catch up.  He almost has his head bashed in twice before he finds an in - the soft underside of his arm during an arcing swing. Dropping to his knees, he release the knife from his ankle guard, pushing upwards and out, blade slashing up to spear through flesh.

 

He doesn't give the man enough time to react, only to stagger and fall, before he's twisting the knife out, knowing with deep satisfaction that the wound is big enough for the man to bleed out or to possibly never heal. Bond aims a kicks at him, knocking him out cold. 

 

“Are you alright?” He demands to Dupont, who shakily nods, grabbing onto the bedsheets to pull herself up. She makes an abortive twitch for her gun, but he’s over her with the knifepoint at her jugular before she can move.

 

“Why,” He asks, eyes trained on her as she struggles to compose herself, fear surprisingly absent as she smooths down her shirt. She glance down, unafraid, almost bored, really, throaty laugh making the edge of the knife dance across her skin. 

 

“They were meant for you, you know.” She bares her teeth in a grin, the barest glimmer of madness in her eyes. “This was all meant for you.”

 

Bond purse his lips, annoyed. Another long villain speech then. He digs in deeper into the soft flesh. “How touching.”

 

Dupont shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. “I know I’ve been on your list for a long time. And you people will be after me sooner or later. Marcel was getting too close for comfort, so really, it’s best for everyone if we met up, no?” Her accent thickens, stirring up her glee. “You can help me settle my problems and I have  _ very  _ interesting information to trade. And in the end, you have one less international criminal to care about and plenty of knowledge to disrupt the biggest human trafficking ring in the world.”

 

Bond feels an irrational surge of anger burst through him. They were played then, unwitting hired assassins for Dupont’s purpose. The knowledge that he had allowed Q so willingly near danger makes his stomach lurch. He hauls her up, grips her around the collar of her shirt. “And you? You’ll still be dead, in the end, either by my gun or by Marcel’s loyalists.”

 

“Use your imagination, darling.” And there it is again, the haughty superiority, the clotting blood doing nothing to hide her contempt. “This is the most discrete way of sending hitmen after him. Your darling quartermaster will finish the job of clearing Joshua for me. And I’ll disappear, don’t you worry. You won’t be seeing much of me.”

 

He could barely see through the rage now, Q’s fragile distress playing through his mind. There’s no uncertainty now, he can already see her dead, eyes wide and unseeing, her debt paid in blood. “What makes you so certain?” he asks, teeth gritted grinding.

 

Her smile widens, and her eyes flick to focus behind him.

 

He could barely turn before he feels the bullets tearing through him, one in his leg, one in his arm, one his chest, maybe more, and he can’t hear, can’t feel, silent and falling with strings cut.

 

He can still see Dupont’s manic grin, see it twist into a snarl as the muzzle points to her, sees, bizarrely, Q, face stark white and bloodless, shimmering into view between one heavy blink and the next, gun flashing and arm jerking with the kickback. 

 

And then he sees no more, because there are no survivors in here, with Dupont and the man like puppets, like him, and his last remaining thought as he floats away is that at least Q is safe, back in the safety of the room, because the man screaming his name is not him, no, but a comfort for his death.

 

He can’t say he has any remorse about dying. He’s been tethering too close to the edge to be surprised. He only regrets not telling Q what his heart has struggled with and what his mouth has formed words around. And so he says it over and over with a deadened tongue, thoughts, memories, love leaking from his body, to watch it fall at the mirage’s feet.

 

*

 

He struggles awake to the sight of Q’s face, bloodless and creased with worry. “Stay awake,” Q begs him, his voice wrapping itself around his head. He feels so far away, and his vision is blurring dangerously. He can’t feel anything, so the shock must be kicking in. God, he hopes he dies.

 

“Please,” Q pleads, and Bond realises with a jolt that he’s crying, “Please stay with me. Help is coming.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bond wants to say. But his voice is just a hoarse gurgle and he can feel blood choking in his throat. He wants to scream with the unfairness of it all, why now, why here. There’s nothing left for him to mourn - except when he looks at Q. Reality is slipping fast, the dangerous sleepiness dragging him under, eerily familiar. “I won’t be long,” he tells Q. “Wait for me.”

 

He slips away, feeling only the hot burn of Q’s tears on his cheeks.


	7. Chapter 7

Heaven isn’t supposed to be white and clinical and smell depressingly sterile. It also doesn’t hurt this much.

 

Bond doesn’t know if he’s happy or furious that he’s alive, but when he sees Q sleeping in the chair next to his bed, neck contorted into an uncomfortable position and mouth slack with exhaustion, he’s at least relieved that he made it through in one piece.

 

His whole body stings with a familiar ache applied in new places, but it doesn’t take much effort to reach over and cover his hand over Q’s. He’s a sentimental fool, a classic gentleman with predictable moves, and he’s head over heels in love with his Quartermaster. He’s also alive and able to tell Q that, and the joy is enough to make him chuckle.

 

He can feel the morphine pull him under, so he wraps his fingers tighter around Q and sinks back to blissful sleep.

 

*

 

“The good news is the mission’s officially a success.” M tells them without preamble. He regards the both of them from his desk, unmoving and unreadable. “Both of you had unorthodoxed methods of achieving the goals but based on the circumstances and how well you’ve handed them, both of you have single handedly saved this mission.” He leveled a look at Q. “A pity about Dupont, though.”

 

Q stares back, unapologetic. “There was a lot of shooting going on,” he says with a poker face to rival M’s. “She must have gotten caught in the crossfire.”

 

“Hmm,” M looks down at the report. “Ten bullets to render her face nearly unrecognisable.” He peers at Q over the rim of his glasses. “Sounds like a plausible outcome to me.”

 

Q’s smile is as pointed as a shark. “Thank you, Sir. The bad news?”

 

M leans back in his seat, removing his glasses to place them delicately on the desk. “You are both suspended from work, a forced leave if you will.” He closed the case files and pushes it to the side. “Only because I know that any heavy handed hints to ‘take a holiday’ will never work.” 

 

“Sounds good to me,” Bond replies smoothly, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. His arm is still in a cast and it hurts to breathe in too deeply but hell if he’s going to show up to work in a wheelchair. “I’ve got a few places in mind to visit.”

 

M’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought you’d put up more of a struggle.”

 

“Oh no, Sir,” Q says primly. “James and I are going to go somewhere far away to disappear for a few weeks.” He smooths his palm over Bond’s thigh, comforting and grounding. “I’m sure we’ll find something to do to get out of your hair for a little while.”

 

M’s eyebrows are disappearing into his hairline by now, but if he had any objections, he did not raise them. “I do hope you have a good time overseas then, gentlemen. Do try not to cause any diplomatic trouble.” He schools in his reactions and stands. “You’re dismissed. Have a good day then, gents.”

 

Later, at the airport with their carry on and Q’s pills in his palms, Bond impulsively kisses him at the departure lounge, in full view of everyone. 

Q accepts it with a little surprise and a whole lot of enthusiasm. “What was that for?” he asks, downing the pill in one expert swallow. The bitterness of it washes over his mouth, making him wince as it wipes away the sweetness of the kiss.

 

Bond nuzzles his ear, sweeping in for another peck. “Just because I can,” he murmurs. He has never felt so free yet.

 

Q smiles fondly. “Sap,” he says, shouldering his bag. “I love you.”

 

Bond smiles, looping their arms together. Up front, their seats are being called for boarding. “I love you too,” he replies, as they walk towards their future together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you had fun reading this! Do leave a kudos or comment if you did :D


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